


The Maid at Rosethorn Hall

by Goron_King_Darunia



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Tales of Symphonia: Dawn of the New World
Genre: M/M, Rating May Change, Tags May Change, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1493092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goron_King_Darunia/pseuds/Goron_King_Darunia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richter Abend, the noble lord of Rosethorn Hall, needs a little cheering up, and only a chance encounter with a familiar blonde will do the trick...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Quick Guide to The Maid At Rosethorn Hall

**Author's Note:**

> Finally making its AO3 debut, here's The Maid at Rosethorn Hall! The first thing going up will be the "Need to Know" guide - a small compilation of links and information that people outside one or both fandoms might need to know to understand the story - followed by the first 3 complete chapters of the story! 
> 
> It's important to note that you may need to download a few fonts in order to be able to view this story properly~ They're completely optional downloads, though, and are simply to enhance the reader's experience and will not affect the flow of the story. A post with links to the necessary fonts will also be provided. I can guarantee the links are 100% safe, since I downloaded the fonts from the same links.
> 
> This can also be found on DeviantART, AdultFanFiction.org, and will soon be making it's Tumblr debut as well!
> 
> FAIR WARNING: This story contains (or will contain, when finished) male-male, soft, oral vore, stuffing, yaoi, cross-dressing, male-male love confessions, kissing, and a lot of ridiculous erotic content and suggestive material. If any of these things is not to your liking, then find something else that is! 
> 
> To all those still interested in a good read, enjoy!

# The Basics You Will Need to Know for The Maid at Rosethorn Hall .

Here, I will be setting up basic canonical references as I go along with the story. First, I'll be listing canonical references from The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, then references from Tales of Symphonia: Knight of Ratatosk/Dawn of the New World. I will also establish the differences between the canonical uses of these characters, terms, places, items, etc. and my usage within the definitions. Most of my story is intended to be _nearly_ canonical, but I have strayed from that for obvious reasons. I tend to keep more canonical in favor of the Elder Scrolls as opposed to the Tales series. Random "fan service" references outside of both games will be listed and cited at the bottom of this page. They are in alphabetical order (by first names). More information may be added as the story progresses and additional information needs to be explained.

## Also! Spoiler warning! If you do not know who Aster is, who Martin Septim is, or the ending of either game, these notes may reveal more than you want to know. If you have any intent of playing/finishing either game without spoilers, it's best to consult this only for what is absolutely necessary, such as items, places, or random fan-service and not for things like people or events.

# [The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion*](http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Oblivion:Oblivion)

### Events

**The Oblivion Crisis** \- "The Oblivion Crisis, also known as the Great Anguish, was a total war between the Daedra and the population of Tamriel. Uriel Septim VII and all of his known heirs were assassinated. Shortly afterward, Oblivion Gates to the Deadlands opened across Tamriel and Daedra poured out as the result of a fanatical cult of worshippers of Mehrunes Dagon known as the Mythic Dawn. Widespread devastation and casualties resulted across entire provinces. Many of the old holds in Skyrim were destroyed... The city of Kvatch was entirely destroyed. The Empire was near collapse, but Uriel VII's illegitimate son, Martin Septim, ended the invasion with the help of a mysterious hero, but the cost was enormous. Martin, the last of the Septim bloodline, sacrificed himself and the Amulet of Kings to become Akatosh's Avatar and cast Mehrunes Dagon back into Oblivion. This event marked the end of the Third Era and the beginning of the eventual disintegration of the Third Empire." - [The UESP*.](http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Oblivion_Crisis)

### Histories and Lore

**Altmer** \- Tall, golden-skinned people of Summerset Isle also known as the High Elves to Imperials. They call themselves Altmer, or the "Cultured People". "High" is often understood to mean proud or snobbish, and as the Altmer generally personify these characteristics, the other races tend to resent them. They consider themselves, with some justice, to be the most civilized culture of Tamriel; the common tongue of Tamriel is based on Altmer speech and writing, and most of the Empire's arts, crafts, laws, and sciences are derived from Altmer traditions. The Altmer are the most strongly gifted in the arcane arts of all the races, and they are very resistant to diseases. "However, they are also somewhat vulnerable to fire, frost, and shock. They are among the longest living and intelligent races of Tamriel, and they often become powerful magic users, having centuries in which to practice their art. Some Altmers' incredibly strong minds make them naturally immune to all kinds of paralysis." - Paraphrased and quoted from the UESP.

**Argonian** \- Also known as 'Saxhleel' in Jel, their native tongue, they are the reptilian denizens of Black Marsh. They are equally at home in water and on land and have developed natural immunities to diseases and poisons. "Their seemingly expressionless faces belie a calm intelligence, and many Argonians are well-versed in the magical arts... They are, in general, a reserved people, slow to trust and hard to know, yet they are fiercely loyal, and will fight to the death for those they have named as friends." While Argonians appear reptilian, they also exhibit qualities of fish and amphibians: they are able to breathe underwater through small gills behind their ears, and swim using the same method as that of a tadpole - moving their tail side-to-side to propel through the water. It is often assumed that Argonians possess neither personality nor emotions. "Of course this is not true; Argonians simply do not facially express their emotions as much as man and mer do... Argonian appearance ranges from reptilian to almost human; this is decided by the amount of Hist sap they ingest as hatchlings, which ceremonially takes place on their Naming Day." - Paraphrased and quoted from the UESP.

**Bosmer** \- An elven clan native to Valenwood. They are canonically carnivores and cannibalistic, though many outside of Valenwood no longer observe these practices. Such practices are maintained in Valenwood due to the Green Pact. The Green Pact was a contract between the ancient Bosmer (who supposedly, according to Khajiit and Bosmer myths, could not maintain their shape) and the Forest God Y'ffre. The pact mandated that the Bosmer would never harm the forest in exchange for Y'ffre's patronage and the ability to maintain their shape. This agreement also included a Meat Mandate, which states that Bosmer must consume their fallen enemies (hence the cannibalism). "The Bosmer are often referred to as Wood Elves, but Bosmer, Boiche, or the Tree-Sap People is what they call themselves. Bosmer rejected the stiff, formal traditions of Aldmeri high culture, preferring a more romantic, simple existence in harmony with the land, its wild beauty and wild creatures. They are relatively nimble and quick in body and wit compared to their more 'civilized' Elven cousins, making them well-suited for a variety of professions... They have many natural and unique abilities; notably, they can command simple-minded creatures and have a nearly chameleon-like ability to hide in forested areas. " - the UESP.

**Breton** \- A race of "manmer" or men with elven blood, which gives them an affinity for magic. They are native to the High Rock province. The Bretons are, essentially "Half-elves", but their phylogeny is so old that their elven features have all but disappeared. Their magical capabilities are all that remain as a testament to their elven blood. Sometimes, features such as the eyebrows and ears may betray their elven heritage, but they are considered men, rather than mer. I like to think of them as distinct from "Half-elves", which are, for my purposes, specifically first generation offspring of an Imperial and Bosmer.

**Dunmer** \- The Dunmer, also known as Dark Elves are the ash-skinned, red-eyed, Elven peoples of the Eastern Empire. "Dark" is commonly understood as "dark-skinned", "gloomy", or "ill-favored by fate", but does in no way denote an inherently evil disposition. The Dunmer and their national identity, embrace these various connotations with enthusiasm. "Their combination of powerful intellects with strong and agile physiques produce superior warriors and sorcerers. On the battlefield, Dunmer are noted for their skill with a balanced integration of the sword, the bow and destruction magic. In character, they are grim, aloof, and reserved, as well as distrusting and disdainful of other races. Dunmer distrust and are treated distrustfully by other races. They are often proud, clannish, ruthless, and cruel, from an outsider's point of view, but greatly value loyalty and family. Young female Dark Elves are well known for their promiscuity. Despite their powerful skills and strengths, the Dunmer's vengeful nature, age-old conflicts, betrayals, and ill-reputation prevent them from gaining more influence. Those born in their homeland of Morrowind are known to be considerably less friendly than those who grew up in the Imperial tradition." - the UESP.

**Imperials** \- "Known as Cyrodiils, Cyrodilics or Cyro-Nordics before the time of Talos, the well-educated and well-spoken Imperials are the natives of the civilized, cosmopolitan province of Cyrodiil. Imperials are also known for the discipline and training of their citizen armies, and their respect for the rule of law. Though physically less imposing than the other races, the Imperials have proved to be shrewd diplomats and traders, and these traits, along with their remarkable skill and training as light infantry, have enabled them to subdue all the other nations and races and erect the monument to peace and prosperity that comprises the Glorious Empire. Their hegemony has waxed and waned throughout the eras, and most historians refer to three distinct Empires, the ends of which each mark a new epoch in Tamrielic history." - the UESP.

**Jode** \- He is the Aldmeri god of the larger moon, Masser. In Khajiiti religion, Jode and Jone are both parts of the Lunar Lattice.

**Jone** \- He is the Aldmeri god of the smaller moon, Secunda. In Khajiiti religion, Jode and Jone are both parts of the Lunar Lattice.

**Khajiit** \- Cat-like beastfolk who are native to Elsweyr. Several varieties exist. Suthay-raht being the most common. All Khajiit have a natural ability to see in the dark. Unlike typical Phylogeny, Khajiit are subject to a Morphology, and their physical appearance is determined by the phases of the two moons, not by the "breed" of their parents. They are known to have a fondness for Moonsugar, Skooma, and other sweet things. Suthay-raht Khajiit are bipedal, digitigrade (toe-walking [as opposed to heel walking, like humans]) humanoid mammals. They are essentially the "typical" thing one would imagine as a cat anthropomorph. Ohmes Khajit look similar to Bosmer, though they are generally of smaller stature. "In order to avoid being mistaken as one of the Bosmer many Ohmes tattoo their faces to resemble a feline-aspect. The Ohmes is the most common form seen outside of the province of Elsweyr, taking advantage of other races' preference to their appearance to serve in positions of ambassadorship and trade. It is possible that the Ohmes are the breed seen across Tamriel at the end of the fourth century of the Third Era." - the UESP.

**The Lunar Lattice** \- Created by the complex movements of the two moons, the Lunar Lattice is purported to be some force that protects Mundus from the rest of Aetherius.

**Magicka or Magic** \- A substance infinite in the world. Magicka should be considered something different from mana, as it is used differently and is inexhaustible. Magicka used for spells seems to come from a free-flowing ethereal kind of Magicka, which may be consumed by eating or reabsorbed by resting. Magicka used for enchantment (giving armor, weapons, and accessories magical properties) is slightly different. Souls of lesser creatures (sometimes even men, mer, and beastfolk in the case of Necromancers and Black Soul Gems) must be captured in soul gems and added to artifacts by a process known as enchantment. This is typically done by high ranking, experienced mages in the mages guild. Black magic comes from black soul gems, and white magic from white soul gems. Black soul gems are the only soul gems powerful enough to capture the souls of men, mer, and beastfolk. Magicka also differs from mana in that it can be used by humans and beast-folk whereas mana can only be used by Elves and Half-elves.

**Moonsugar Myth** \- Khajiiti myth. Ma'Ikau's explanation near the end of Chapter 1 is essentially canon, so I will not reiterate here.

**Nede or the Nedics** \- "The Nedes (more commonly known as Nedic peoples) were a race of men who were widespread in Tamriel until the First Era, when they were absorbed into the bloodlines of the modern human races. Their characteristics and ancestry are unknown because of conflicting historical accounts and definitions of the word, but modern-day Cyrodiils (especially the Nibenese) are known to be their closest relatives. The true story of their origins became lost and confused during Tamriel's violent past, and is now a subject of debate among students of history. Efforts to interpret surviving records have given rise to several schools of thought, and some explanation is needed to separate fact from the overlooked details and possible propaganda of official accounts." - the UESP.

**The Nine Divines** \- The traditional religion in Cyrodiil revolves around the pantheon known as the Nine Divines. The Nine are: Akatosh, Dibella, Zenithar, Mara, Stendarr, Kynareth, Julianos, Arkay, and the once mortal god Talos.

  * **Akatosh** \- Known as Auri-El to the Aldmer and Bormahu (Father) to the dragons, Akatosh is the chief deity of the Nine Divines. "He is present in every Tamrielic religion except that of the Dunmer... His avatar is a dragon, and he is often called the Dragon God of Time. He is generally considered to be the first of the Gods to form in the Beginning Place; after his establishment, other spirits found the process of being easier and the various pantheons of the world emerged. The Aedric spirit is the ultimate God of the Cyrodiilic Empire, where he embodies the qualities of endurance, invincibility, and everlasting legitimacy while promoting the virtues of duty, service, and obedience. Akatosh is thought to be the father of all dragons, and their leader Alduin was titled "First-Born of Akatosh". Akatosh is the patron of The Akatosh Chantry, the religious order devoted to the worship and glorification of him, who refer to him as the "Great Dragon". The Warp in the West and other Dragon Breaks are thought to result from Akatosh's temporary loss of control over the flow of time. 

"Akatosh was involved in the forging of the Covenant with the new Empire of humanity, and his blood was mystically joined with Alessia and her heirs. The Amulet of Kings was the primary token of this patronage, and it allowed the new Empire of Cyrodiil to benefit from the stabilizing influence of White Gold Tower, maintaining the barrier between Mundus and the Planes of Oblivion. When that barrier was threatened during the Oblivion Crisis, Martin Septim was able to summon Akatosh's spirit and transform himself into the avatar of Akatosh, which appeared in the shape of a giant dragon made of fire. This avatar dragon defeated Mehrunes Dagon, reestablishing the mystical barrier between Tamriel and the Daedric Realms. The avatar transformed into a statue, now located inside the ruined Temple of the One." - Paraphrased and quoted from the UESP.

  * **Arkay** \- Lord of the Wheel of Life, Arkay is a member of the Divines, and also a popular god in other cultures. "Arkay is often more important in those cultures where his father, Akatosh, is either less related to time or where his time aspects are difficult to comprehend by the layman." He is the god of burials, funeral rites, and is associated with cyclical occasions, such as the seasons and life/death. "His priests are staunch opponents of necromancy and all forms of the undead, and are empowered to bestow Arkay's blessings which prevent the forceful misuse of a mortal soul. Thus, any body properly buried by a priest observing the proper rituals is protected by Arkay's Law from being raised as undead. Therefore, necromancers view Arkay as their ultimate enemy, and make covert efforts to undermine his worship throughout Tamriel. Because of this association with, and protection of, mortality, he is sometimes called the Mortals' God.

"There are two contradictory legends about Arkay's origin. The book Ark'ay the God of Birth and Death has it that Arkay was once a regular shopkeeper with a passion for knowledge. He found a book written in a strange language and spent years upon years attempting to decipher it, slowly ignoring everything and everyone else around him. Eventually Arkay realized the book explained life and death itself, but by this time was at death's door with an incurable plague. Praying to Mara as a last resort, Arkay asked for more time to interpret the book. Mara gave him a choice: die now or become a god for eternity, charged with keeping the balance of death and life in the universe. The alternative is contained in The Monomyth, which suggests that Arkay was one of the very first spirits to 'crystallize' after the start of time. 

"Comparing Arkay to Tu'whacca, Yokudan God of Souls, shows this story is allegorical, framing the sequence of events by which an anonymous Aedra found new purpose in the constructs of the mortal plane and took up the mantle of life and death." - Paraphrased and quoted from the UESP.

  * **Dibella** \- Known as the "Queen of Heaven", "Goddess of Beauty", and "Lady of Love", Dibella is the popular Aedric "love goddess" of the Nine Divines. "In Cyrodiil, she has had many different cults, some devoted to women, some to artists and aesthetics, and others to erotic instruction... She is usually depicted as a voluptuous and attractive human female, often either holding large flowers or actually having flowers in place of hands.

"She tends to attract individuals who live and/or espouse an epicurean lifestyle." (Hence, for the purposes of my story, she is one of the deities worshiped as a patron God at Rosethorn Hall.) "Followers of Dibella can purportedly commune with the goddess using a person designated by her, known as the Sybil of Dibella, as a medium. Worshipping her is thought of as a more personal, intimate association than worshipping some other Divines." It is said she asks followers to "[o]pen [their] heart[s] to the noble secrets of art and love. Treasure the gifts of friendship. Seek joy and inspiration in the mysteries of love".

"Despite her status as a Divine and general popularity, views on the worship of Dibella are somewhat mixed. Worship of her is frequently associated with lewd acts and indecency. Houses of Dibella have been described as 'cult[s] of beauty and physical relations'. Likewise, the goddess herself has been described as 'too lusty, or, more euphemistically, 'warm-blooded'." - Paraphrased and quoted from the UESP.

  * **Julianos** \- Aedric God of Wisdom and Logic, and one of the Cyrodilic Divines; Julianos governs the realms of literature, law, history, and contradiction. He is associated with magic, and thus is often revered by wizards. "Jhunal, the Nordic father of language and mathematics, fell out of favor in the Nordic pantheon, after which he became Julianos of the Divines. Monastic orders founded by Tiber Septim and dedicated to Julianos are the keepers of the Elder Scrolls. He is particularly venerated amongst many Imperials and Bretons. As a Divine, he represents the virtue of learning, scholarship, and justice. He is said to 'incant the Damned Equation'. His symbol is a triangle. A chapel was dedicated to his worship in Skingrad. There was also a Chantry of Julianos in the Imperial City. In the Iliac Bay, temples dedicated to him are known as Schools of Julianos. As their name implies, these temples are considered educational institutions, and they are believed to have spread the term 'magicka' to describe the 'power associated with performing magic'." (Because of his association with scholarship, and the presence of a chapel in Skingrad, he is also worshiped as a patron deity in Rosethorn Hall.) - Paraphrased and quoted from the UESP.

  * **Kynareth** \- The goddess of the heavens, the elements, the winds, and the unseen spirits of the air. She is a member of the Nine Divines and Patron of sailors and travelers. "Kynareth is often invoked for auspicious stars at birth and for good fortune in daily life. In some legends, she is the first to agree to Lorkhan's divine plan to create the mortal plane, and provides the space in the void for its creation. Furthermore, she is associated with rain, a phenomenon that is said not to have occurred before the removal of Lorkhan's divine spark. 

"According to followers of the Divines, the Sky Goddess Kyne, worshipped by the Nords as the strongest of the Sky spirits and the widow of Shor, is the Nordic aspect of Kynareth. Rain is said to be Kyne's tears as she mourns the loss of her beloved Shor, since rain is believed not to have appeared until after his divine spark was forcibly removed. It is said Kyne gifted men with the thu'um so they could harness the language of the dragons and use its power to save themselves from the wrath of Alduin and the dragons." - Paraphrased and quoted from the UESP.

  * **Mara** \- "Goddess of Love, patron of the bountiful earth, and source of mortal compassion and understanding. Nearly revered as a universal goddess, her origins are in mythic times as a fertility goddess. In Skyrim, Mara is a handmaiden of Kyne. In the Empire, she is Mother-Goddess, worshipped at the Benevolences of Mara. She is sometimes associated with Nir of the 'Anuad', the female principle of the cosmos that gave birth to creation. Depending on the religion, she is either married to Akatosh or Lorkhan, or the concubine of both.

"Temples devoted to the Mother Goddess of Tamriel are called Benevolences, because the followers are devoted to the charge of uniting all creatures as brethren, children of Mara. They are intolerant only of those who show intolerance; they hate only those who hate. Mara is their Mother Goddess, and thus she blesses all with the gift of love. Particularly, she favors those who help her followers in Tamriel. For a reasonable donation to a Benevolence, the patron will be blessed and supposedly be forever beloved by he or she who loves them best. Those who devote themselves further to the Mother Goddess are even more blessed. The Benevolence's priests and priestesses study the greatness of Mara's Tamriel and are said to have learned much, so there is much secret knowledge that is shared with initiates who are judged to be true to Mara's calling." (For the purposes of my story, the people of Tamriel consider Martel of the Aselian pantheon to be the Aselian version of Mara; likewise, people in Aselia view Mara as the Tamrielic version of Martel.) - the UESP.

  * **Stendarr** \- "Called the God of Mercy, Charity, and Well-Earned Luck, as well as the God of Justice. A member of the Nine Divines, his origins are traced back to Stuhn, God of Ransom, Shield-thane of Shor, but he evolved into a deity of compassion or, sometimes, righteous rule by might and merciful forbearance. Stendarr is the inspiration of magistrates and rulers, the patron of the Imperial Legion, and the comfort of the law-abiding citizen. In early Altmeri legends, Stendarr is the apologist of Man. He is popular amongst Imperials, Altmer, Bosmer, and Bretons. He is also called 'Stendarr the Steadfast', and the deity who 'suffers Men to read'.

"In the late Third Era, the temples of Stendarr in the Iliac Bay region were the only healers who offered services to the faithful and heathens alike to honor the God of Mercy. Stendarr, along with Mara and Akatosh, was said to have intervened to create the Miracle of Peace in the Iliac Bay. Members of the Imperial Cult are said to 'serve Stendarr' by taking on roles of protection. After the Oblivion Crisis, an order of holy warriors was founded, one which chose to emphasize their devotion to Stendarr as the God of Justice. The Vigilants of Stendarr are dedicated to eliminating Daedra and any other 'abominations' (such as vampires, werewolves and witches) in the name of the divine." - the UESP.

  * **Talos** \- "Heir to the Seat of Sundered Kings, Talos is the most important hero-god of Mankind. In his mortal form, known as Tiber Septim, he conquered all of Tamriel and ushered in the Third Era (and the Third Empire). After death, his spirit ascended to the heavens to become the ninth and youngest divine, under his birth name of Talos. Also called Ysmir, 'Dragon of the North'. One of the Nine Divines, the major gods worshipped throughout Tamriel. Less prominent sects, such as theTalos Cult, have been inspired by his apotheosis." - the UESP.

  * **Zenithar** \- "The God of Work and Commerce, the Provider of our Ease, is one of the Divines. The Trader God is frequently seen as the same deity as the Bosmeri god Z'en. In the Empire, however, Zenithar is considered a more cultivated god of merchants and middle nobility, being the deity of wealth, labor, commerce and communication. He has strong ties to Cyrodiil and High Rock. The introduction of the worship of Zenithar was largely tolerated in Hammerfell due to his similarities to a Yokudan agricultural deity. His worshippers say that, despite his mysterious origins, Zenithar is the god 'that will always win'. His priests teach that the path to peace and prosperity is through earnest work and honest profit, not through war, bloodshed, or theft. Zenithar is seen as a warrior god, but one who is restrained and reserved in times of peace. 

"He is thought to be associated with Kynareth, as well as a large blue star sometimes seen in the skies of Tamriel. It's also said that he is most in touch with the mortal world... A blacksmith's anvil is his symbol, representing labor and production. Temples devoted to him are sometimes called Resolutions. Worship of Zenithar is typically more prevalent in some geographic areas, such as Leyawiin, Totambu, and Kambria." - the UESP.




**Nord** \- "The Nords are the children of the sky, a race of tall and fair-haired humans from Skyrim who are known for their incredible resistance to cold and magical frost. They are enthusiastic warriors, and many become renowned soldiers and mercenaries all over Tamriel. Eager to augment their martial skills beyond the traditional methods of Skyrim, they excel in all manner of warfare, and are known as a militant people by their neighbors. Nords are also natural seamen, and have benefited from nautical trade since their first migrations from Atmora. They captain and crew many merchant fleets, and may be found all along the coasts of Tamriel." - the UESP.

**Orc** \- "Orcs, also called Orsimer or 'Pariah Folk' in ancient times, are sophisticated, beastlike people of the Wrothgarian Mountains, Dragontail Mountains, and Orsinium (literally translated as 'Orc-Town'). They are noted for their unshakable courage in war and their unflinching endurance of hardships. In the past, Orcs have been widely feared and hated by the other nations and races of Tamriel, and were often considered to be goblin-ken. However, they have slowly won acceptance in the Empire, in particular for their distinguished service in the Emperor's Legions. Orc armorers are prized for their craftsmanship, and Orc warriors in heavy armor are among the finest front-line troops in the Empire, and are fearsome when using their berserker rage. Most Imperial citizens regard the Orc society as rough and cruel. The Orcs of the Iliac Bay region have developed their own language, known as Orcish, and have often had their own kingdom, Orsinium." - the UESP.

**Redguard** \- "The most naturally talented warriors in Tamriel, the dark-skinned, wiry-haired Redguards of Hammerfell seem born to battle, though their pride and fierce independence of spirit makes them more suitable as scouts or skirmishers, or as free-ranging heroes and adventurers, than as rank-and-file soldiers. In addition to their cultural affinities for many weapon and armor styles, Redguards are also physically blessed with hardy constitutions, resistance to poison, and quickness of foot. Redguards do not share the same blood as the other human races, and they have no connection with the ancestral Nordic homeland of Atmora." - the UESP.

### People

**Batul gra-Sharob** \- An Orc woman living in the camp outside of Kvatch. She was one of the refugees from the Sacking of Kvatch. Canonically, she is the smith of that town-turned-campsite.

**The Champion of Cyrodiil** \- The hero who helped Martin Septim avert the Oblivion Crisis. S/he is also known as the Hero of Kvatch, for it was s/he who closed the Oblivion gate there, saving what remained of the city. The Champion is also credited with saving Cyrodiil by defeating Umaril the Unfeathered and reforming the Knights of the Nine, and with saving the Shivering Isles from Jyggalag and the Greymarch. For the purposes of my story, to fit with the canon historical documentation, it is taboo to refer to the Champion by name, race, or sex.

**Haskill** \- A seemingly immortal Breton man canonically the chamberlain to the Daedric Lord Sheogortath - a spirit worshiped as a deity who's particular sphere of dominion happens to be madness. For my purposes, he is chamberlain of Rosethorn Hall and personal butler to Richter Abend. Is he canonical in my story? That is secret...

**Hauls-Ropes-Faster** \- An Argonian Sailor who makes his home in Anvil. Slightly non-canonical in my version, he is also a trader with Kvatch and married to the canonically unrelated Argonian Quill-Weave.

**Hircine** \- A Daedric Prince whose sphere is the Hunt. He is also known as the Father of Manbeasts. Hircine is credited with creating many therianthropic diseases which transform mortals into beasts. He is therefore the guardian of were-creatures. His "typical lackeys on the mortal realm Nirn are werewolves, which he directly talks to, gives tasks, and rewards with additional powers." - Paraphrased and quoted from the UESP.

**Lifts-Her-Tail** \- See Random Fan-Service.

**Martin Septim** \- The illegitimate son of Uriel Septim VII. With the help of the Champion of Cyrodiil, he battled and defeated Mehrunes Dagon, the Daedric Prince of Destruction, bringing an end to the Oblivion Crisis.

**Mehrunes Dagon** \- "Daedric Prince of Destruction, Change, Revolution, Energy, and Ambition. He is associated with natural dangers like fire, earthquakes, and floods. He is an especially important deity in Morrowind, where he represents its near-inhospitable terrain as one of the Four Corners of the House of Troubles. In most cultures, though, Dagon is merely a god of bloodshed and betrayal. Dagon's plane of Oblivion is known as the Deadlands. As the name suggests, they are barren wastelands, consisting of blackened isles in a sea of lava. The Dremora, Clannfear and Scamps are among his servants."

  * **Clannfear** \- Clannfears are dinosaur-like Daedra that resemble a lizard with a large, bony crest on their head and a sharp beak and talons. They may represent common, wild animals in Oblivion. The Clannfear Runt is a weaker version of the Clannfear. Due to their great speed and considerable strength, they are fearsome opponents, especially for inexperienced adventurers. All Clannfears rely upon melee attacks using their heads, beaks, and/or claws. - Paraphrased from the UESP.

  * **Dremora** \- "Dremora are an aggressive humanoid species of Daedra who serve the Daedric Prince Mehrunes Dagon. They are commonly encountered throughout the planes of Oblivion. They boast a natural resistance to magic, and are almost invariably male. They are intelligent, sentient beings and make capable warriors and mages.

"Dremora society is a class-based clan system that upholds values of oaths, pride, honor and loyalty, both to the clan and to Lord Mehrunes Dagon, whom they venerate as a god. Dremora culture appears to be male dominated, and focuses on training and preparing for battle and war. Dremora fall into one of seven different ranks, each more powerful and privileged than the rank below. These ranks are further distributed into melee, missile or mage classes. Dremora refer to their race as the 'Kyn' (the People) and to other Dremora as 'Kynaz' (of the Kyn). They consider themselves to be above other Daedra." - Paraphrased and quoted from the UESP.

  * **Scamps** \- Scamps are the weakest Daedra encountered in Oblivion (especially the smaller, weaker version, Stunted Scamps).

  * **Xivilai** \- Xivilai are highly intelligent Daedra that, although similar to Dremora in their humanoid appearance, have no caste system or ranks. This leads many to view them as creatures rather than people. (Xivilai is both the singular and plural form of this word). 

All Xivilai have multiple spells they can cast, including fire and shock spells. "Xivilai will almost always summon a Clannfear immediately at the start of a battle. In addition, many Xivilai are armed with a two-handed weapon (claymore, warhammer, or battle axe) that they wield one-handed." - Paraphrased and quoted from the UESP.




"Dagon's acknowledged enemy is Ebonarm and his summoning day is Warriors Festival. As the Prince of Destruction and Revolution, Dagon is perhaps the most ambitious of the Daedric Princes, and has attempted to invade Nirn on several occasions. He invaded and seized control of the Battlespire, in contravention of the Daedric pact limiting meddling in mortal affairs by divine beings, in order to cripple the capacity of the Imperial College of Battlemages... Dagon was also responsible for the destruction of Mournhold at the end of the First Era..." - the UESP.

**Quill-Weave** \- An Argonian author living in Anvil. She likes to talk to the sailors at the bar to get ideas for her books. In my version, she is married to the canonically unrelated sailor Hauls-Ropes-Faster.

**Salmo** \- Salmo is a baker in Skingrad. He's famous around Cyrodiil for his sweet-rolls.

**Uriel Septim VII** \- "(3E 346 - 3E 433; ruled 3E 368 - 3E 433) [T]he son of Pelagius IV and twenty-first emperor of the Septim dynasty." The Oblivion Crisis began at the very end of Uriel VII's reign, shortly following the triple assassination of his grown sons Geldall, Enman and Ebel. "Having been advised by his councilors to go into hiding, he attempts to flee the Imperial City through a secret underground tunnel which passes through the [future Champion of Cyrodiil's] prison cell. Here, he invites the [future Champion] to join his entourage and asks [xir] to find his illegitimate son and bring him to the palace to be crowned emperor. He also gives the [future Champion] the Amulet of Kings, which must be worn at all times by a member of the Septim bloodline, or the barrier between Tamriel and Oblivion will dissolve.

"Uriel is killed shortly afterward by members of the Daedra-worshipping Mythic Dawn cult. Shortly after his death, portals to Oblivion begin appearing all over Cyrodiil and the forces of the Daedric Prince Mehrunes Dagon invade Tamriel." - Paraphrased and quoted from the UESP.

**Vaermina** \- Daedric Lord of Dreams and Nightmares, though she is far more often associated with nightmares, and rarely praised for her involvement (if any since this is speculation and never presented first hand in the canon) in dreams.

###  [Places*](http://www.uesp.net/maps/obmap/obmap.shtml)

**Aetherius** Equivalent to the afterlife, it is said to lie outside of Oblivion. Stars are said to be holes punched in the veil of Oblivion as lesser Aedra fled for Aetherius. The day sky is "mortal perception of Aetherius without the obstruction of Oblivion". Mortals are essentially staring at all of Magic when they stare at the daytime sky. Aetherius is said to be infinite, but outside of Oblivion, though Oblivion is also considered infinite. These inconsistencies are regarded as being caused by "mental stress of the mortal mind" attempting to understand the impossible. The spatial, physical, and metaphysical understandings of the workings of this world are far more complex than I care to delve into. See the UESP for Details. Also see the [Imperial Library*](http://www.imperial-library.info/content/cosmology) out-of-game reference and explanation, though this may be non-canon (however, as much of it comes from game developers themselves, it can be treated as canon.)

**Anvil** \- A coastal county along the Abecean Sea on the Gold Coast. Distinguishing features include a lighthouse and a mermaid statue in town. The inn "The Fo'c'sle" is located here.

**Bravil** \- A relatively poor town spread across three little isles on the west coast of the Niben Bay. I doubt I will be exploring this town much. For the purposes of this story, all that needs to be known is that a Skooma den (place where people go to use the drug Skooma) and a Black Market source of said drug may be found here.

**Cyrodiil** \- The diverse province in the center of Tamriel, home to the Emperor, and the playable province in Oblivion. Demographics are the most diverse for all the provinces, with nearly equal distribution of races compared to other provinces, though mostly Imperials populate the land.

**The Deadlands** \- "The Deadlands are a Daedric realm of Oblivion created and ruled over by the Daedric Prince of Destruction, Mehrunes Dagon. The embodiment of its creator's sphere, the dimension is fraught with natural disasters and destructive change. The realm is covered by an ocean of lava, scattered with scorched volcanic islands and ruined structures. Many lesser Daedra roam the realm freely, but Dremora dominate the hierarchy. Very little flora grow in the realm's hostile environment. Burnt grass and dead trees dot the landscape, while Bloodgrass, aggressive Harrada Roots and poisonous Spiddal Plants grow abundantly in the charred soil." - the UESP. 

**Hircine's Hunting Grounds** \- The domain of the Daedric Prince Hircine. It is described as a vast forest, populated by were-creatures. Visitors are often pursued by were-bears, and, in some cases, by Hircine himself. Hircine is often accompanied by a pack of werewolves, which seem to be his favorite minions. Mortals who die with lycanthropy are sent here, rather than Aetherius, to serve Hircine, though they may be cured postmortem and freed from this servitude...

**Kvatch** \- Built on a mountain top, located between the Gold Coast and the Colovian Highlands. It was nearly entirely destroyed during the Oblivion Crisis. The only structures that remain more or less unharmed are the Chapel of Akatosh and parts of the Kvatch Castle. A camp is located at the base of the mountain where the refugees now live.

**Mundus** \- The mortal plane of existence. As far as the game has reported, Mundus is made up of the Nine planets, including Nirn, and its two moons Masser and Secunda. The Eight Planets are the infinite bodies and planes of the gods, as are the two moons. Nirn, the mortal plane is the only finite plane. However, due to mortal mental stress, it is impossible to perceive the infinite bodies surrounded by the void of Oblivion so they are perceived as bubbles in space. The spatial, physical, and metaphysical understandings of the workings of this world are far more complex than I care to delve into. See the UESP for Details. Also see the [Imperial Library*](http://www.imperial-library.info/content/cosmology) out-of-game reference and explanation, though this may be non-canon (however, as much of it comes from game developers themselves, it can be treated as canon.)

**Nirn** \- The name of the planet on which the continent of Tamriel can be found. Nirn is part of Mundus. Nirn is an anomaly according to myth in that, unlike other planets, it is finite and yet made of all the other planets. Because of this, it upset the balance in the cosmos and now, the Gods and Daedra supposedly have a vested interest in the fate of Nirn. The spatial, physical, and metaphysical understandings of the workings of this world are far more complex than I care to delve into. See the UESP for Details. Also see the [Imperial Library*](http://www.imperial-library.info/content/cosmology) out-of-game reference and explanation, though this may be non-canon (however, as much of it comes from game developers themselves, it can be treated as canon.)

**Oblivion** Supposedly an endless plane know also as the Void. It is similar to our concept of "outer space" in that it contains the heavenly bodies and planets. Daedra are each said to have realms here, also of purportedly infinite size and mass. Some of these realms resemble worlds, others are simply 'voids', containing nothing but dust, with no air, no warmth, etc. The spatial, physical, and metaphysical understandings of the workings of this world are far more complex than I care to delve into. See the UESP for Details. Also see the [Imperial Library*](http://www.imperial-library.info/content/cosmology) out-of-game reference and explanation, though this may be non-canon (however, as much of it comes from game developers themselves, it can be treated as canon.)

**Skingrad** \- The county ruled by alleged master mage Count Janus Hassildor. (He is, in actuality, a vampire.) One of the richest counties in all of Cyrodiil, it is home to both the province's best known vintners, a bakery reputed for it's sweet-rolls, and some of the biggest, most wealthy households in the empire. Rosethorn Hall is located here... (or is it?)

**Tamriel** \- The major continent on which most events in the Elder Scrolls series take place.

### Things

**The Amulet of Kings** \- "The Amulet of Kings, also called the Amulet of the Kings of Glory, is a pendant traditionally worn by the ruling emperor of Cyrodiil. In the center of the amulet is the Chim-el Adabal, also known as the Red Diamond, a huge Soul Gem of Ayleid origin. It is held in a golden clasp surrounded by eight smaller gems that represent the Eight Divines of the original Cyrodilic pantheon, created by Queen Alessia. It serves as the symbol of the divine right of the Cyrodilic emperors, is an important component of the coronation ceremony, and is a powerful artifact when used for divination. The soul of each reigning emperor is enshrined within the central stone, presumably during the coronation ritual involving the Dragonfires and the divine Covenant. In this way Cyrodiil's rulers are brought together in death, forming an 'oversoul' that may provide counsel to their successors. The amulet may only be worn by certain individuals - those who can be said to have the 'Dragon Blood' in their veins. The specific requirements, however, are a subject of debate, and they may simply call for the attributes of a ruler or some divine mandate." - the UESP.

**The Elder Scrolls** \- "The Elder Scrolls (Kelle in the Dragon Language), also called the Aedric Prophecies (though the accuracy of that term is often disputed), are scrolls of unknown origin and number which simultaneously archive both past and future events. The number of the Scrolls is unknown not because of their immense quantity, but because the number itself is unknowable, as the Scrolls "do not exist in countable form". They are fragments of creation from outside time itself, and their use in divining prophecies is but a small part of their power. They simultaneously do not exist, yet always have existed." - the UESP.

**Oblivion Gates** \- They are exactly what they sound like: portals into the realm of Oblivion. They are kept open from the Daedric realms using sigil stones. 

**Moonsugar** \- There is actually no evidence that you can sell or buy it in Cyrodiil, but what the heck, technically speaking, if you can get Skooma, you should be able to get Moonsugar. Ma'Ikau's explanation is canon, so I won't re-explain it here.

**Skooma** \- A highly addictive narcotic refined from Moonsugar. Though illegal in many provinces, it is merely a black market (though perfectly legal) item in Cyrodiil, and can be found most easily in Bravil. Most merchants will actually buy it from you in-game, unlike stolen goods which can only be sold to a fence. It comes in both solid, crystalline form - which is smoked in a pipe - and in the more prevalent liquid form which is imbibed.

# Tales of Symphonia: Knight of Ratatosk/Dawn of the New World

### Events

**The Blood Purge** \- An event carried out by the Vanguard in which the citizens of Palmacosta were massacred. This event was supposedly carried out by Lloyd Irving in retribution for the town's alleged crimes against the Church of Martel. Marta's mother was not actually killed in this massacre. Both Emil's parents _were_ killed. For my story, The Blood Purge is carried out by the Vanguard, but they are now an organization not at all associated with Brute (or Richter) who are upset with the union of both nations and wish to remain separate. They are still a primarily Sylvaranti faction, like the game canon and still have nothing to do with Lloyd.

**The World Regeneration** \- This canonically takes place approximately two years before the events of ToS2:KoR/DotNW (counting the beginning cut-scene which takes place 6 months prior to the beginning of the actual start of the game.) The Chosen of Regeneration, Colette Brunel, and her friends are reputed to have made pacts with all the known Summon Spirits of the divided worlds (Tethe'alla and Sylvarant) in order to free the Great Seed (which became the World Tree), restore mana to the worlds, and unite them into one. For the purposes of my story, the World Regeneration may be considered the national (rather than physical) union of both Tethe'alla and Sylvarant, as well as the planting of the new World Tree. Essentially, in my version, Colette and the others may be credited with politically uniting the peoples of both nations and stopping the squabble over mana by planting a new World Tree. But other than that, all canonical plot is non-essential to my story. While they are united, Tethe'alla and Sylvarant are both self-governing.

### Histories and Lore

**Carriage Travel** \- Though never shown in game, Marta and Emil make reference to traveling by carriage at least once. Marta expresses dislike of traveling by carriage because she gets motion sickness.

**Elves** \- Though canonically, they are simply a race capable of using magic, for my purposes, they are of the Tamrielic Altmeric descent.

**Half-elves** \- Canonically, they are hated and feared by both men and elves. For my purposes they are merely a being born from an Imperial and Bosmer union (except in Aselia, where it's a Nedic and Aldmeric union... it's complicated. Basically the Aselian use of 'half-elf' is a misnomer, more generalized to any elven/human offspring. I made this overly complicated for no reason). There is also a lack of the expected canonical prejudice associated with them in both ToS games. (I never said my story was canon, did I? I said it was almost canon. Remember, this is _Nirn_ , not Aselia...) I exclude other possible man and mer combinations for these reasons - Altmer unions with any race of man would be culturally decided by the Altmer member of the pair. If the offspring looked more like the Altmer parent (usually offspring of two different races take on the mother's traits [though paternal traits may also be present]) then, being a proud race, they would simply dub the child an Altmer and be done with it. If it resembled the other parent more, then it would be considered to be of that race. The same rational would be supposed for Dunmer. Orc half-breeds (not meant in the derogatory canonical sense) would be called "Half-orcs". Bretons - since they have some elven blood, would produce something more than a literal "half-elf" since more than half of the offspring's phylogeny would be of elven blood. Redguard offspring seem more likely to resemble Redguards than anything so... (totally glancing over that possibility, because I'm racist! *shot* [Don't be offended, Redguards, I love you! Especially your handsome men. I just can't think of a good term for a half-Bosmer, half-Redguard child... Maybe Bosguard?! *shot again*]) Union between beastfolk and other races has never been recorded, or shown to produce offspring. So there go the Bosmonians and the Bosmiit! So that leaves Imperial and Bosmer as the likeliest candidates for "Half-elf" parents. However, more than likely, anything beyond the second or third generation would be considered Bosmer or Imperial based on physical traits. Because race is, after all, cultural and not biological... So there... *shot several more times with a machine gun.* ((I will most likely refine this definition at some point... Just F.Y.I.))

**Mana** \- The source of all life in Aselia's lore. It is only known to be produced by specific trees, non-native to Aselia. Summon Spirits especially need it to survive and it is also toxic to demons. For the purposes of my story, it should be considered a separate thing from Magicka, and non-essential to survival for anything but Summon Spirits. It's only use, therefore, would be for magic (spells) and magi-technology (and fending off demons).

### People

**Alba** \- Emil's uncle. It was canonically noted that he's hit Emil at least once. He is _not_ known as an alcoholic in-game. It is merely my personal fanon.

**Aster** \- Seen briefly in-game. He was killed by Ratatosk while trying to convince the Summon Spirit not to destroy mankind. In my story, however, he is a Tamrielic native who grew up beside Richter in Skingrad. He is of Imperial descent, and was Richter's best childhood friend. He was enlisted as a knight alongside Richter during the Oblivion Crisis and was tragically killed when the Skingrad Defense fought back against the Daedra.

**Aqua** \- Canonically, Aqua was one of Ratatosk's Centurions - a being whose job is to work pact magic and control monsters of their element to aid Ratatosk in balancing the world's mana. Aqua is the Centurion of Water. She also happened to have a crush on Richter. Due to her feline appearance in the game, I decided to make her an Ohmes Khajiit. She is Richter's personal maid and head-maid of the household. Her primary duties are to tidy Richter's quarters, groom Richter's hair and nails, mend clothes, set the tables, and serve special guests. However, she may also fill in for Haskill if he is unavailable since she and Haskill share significant overlap in their duties. She retains her canonically obvious crush on Richter.

**Brute Lualdi** \- Marta's Father and founder of the Vanguard. Many of the Vanguard's actions can be traced back to his orders. For the purposes of my story, Brute is simply Marta's father, and is not associated with the Vanguard in any way.

**Desians** \- (Pictured in the background wearing blue. It was surprisingly hard to find a picture of these guys; nearly all the pictures were of the Renegades, which are a similar faction with entirely different goals.) The antagonists of the pre-regeneration world. Their main purpose in the game was to use humans as a source of Exspheres - powerful gems created from human suffering which are used to enhance other beings' physical and magical capabilities - and to antagonize the Chosen in order to enhance his/her Cruxis Crystal, which only grows when the host is in danger or under stress. For the purposes of my story, the Desians are the developers of Rheiards. They retain their canon role of "Exsphere farmers" but as the Chosen's journey is entirely different in my story's context, that's where the similarity ends.

**Emil Castagnier** \- Born in Palmacosta and raised by his parents until they were killed in an event known as the Blood Purge. His mother told him to flee to Luin, where he was taken in by his abusive aunt and uncle for 6 months prior to the start of his "adventure" (I have changed this to two years to coincide with another event). Canonically cowardly, but in my version, I highlight the often-ignored fact that he's conditioned to behave this way, and is in reality far more brave than he appears in-game. He is apparently immune to motion sickness because he can ride in carriages and on boats without being affected. This is expressed in a couple in-game skits. (This might suggest that he does not have a functioning vestibular sense, which may also affect his balance, hence I made him a little clumsy.) He has a notable stutter which fans never forget (since all fan-fictions [that _I've_ seen, anyway] express his stutter in dialogue.)

**Emil's Mother - Lana Castagnier** \- Died in the Blood Purge.

**Emil's Father - Reysol Castagnier** \- Died in the Blood Purge.

**Flora** \- Emil's Aunt and Lana's sister. She is notably verbally abusive toward Emil.

**Marta Lualdi** \- Canonically Emil's love interest. Richter/Emil fandoms entirely ignore this in favor of the subtext provided in-game. Her mother actually died during the World Regeneration, killed by the Giant Tree that went rampant.

**Ratatosk** \- (Depicted above in core forms.) Summon Spirit of the Giant Kharlan Tree and the Lord of all Monsters. He is responsible for controlling the flow of mana and guarding the Ginnungagap. He is served by Centurions - spirits that resemble, but are not, monsters. They directly control monsters of their own element and thus control the flow of mana. He was betrayed by Mithos, who split the two worlds in order to prevent their destruction, preserve the Great Seed, and the soul of his sister Martel. It was his goal to eventually resurrect his sister. However, I yet again stray from canon. Ratatosk only matters insofar as he is the guardian of the Ginnungagap (which in my version leads to Oblivion, the Tamrielic "name" for Nifelheim) and the Lord of all (Aselian) Monsters.

**Richter Abend** \- A half-elven researcher at the Sybak Research Academy, a Tethe'allan scientific institute that enslaved half-elves and forced them to research prior to the World Regeneration. He and Aster became friends at the Academy, despite racial differences (half-elves were long persecuted in both Sylvarant and Tethe'alla, especially by humans.) Richter and Aster set off together after the Regeneration to seek the Summon Spirit Ratatosk to ask him to resolve the chaotic weather patterns around the world. Ratatosk kills Aster in a rage and is nearly killed by Richter in an act of vengeance. Richter then joins the Vanguard (which was originally a charity, according to the manga Onshuu no Richter) to recover Ratatosk's core (Ratatosk's dormant form) which was taken by one of Ratatosk's Centurion servants, Tenebrae. Though he is responsible for militarizing the Vanguard, he does not lead the organization though he does hold some influence. In my version, he is a half-elven nobleman (alternately called noblemer) living in Skingrad. The circumstances surrounding his grief at Aster's passing (as well as the passing itself) are entirely different than in the canon. Thus, my Richter is only canon in regards to personality, affinity for science, love of knowledge, and mourning of Aster. He has no connection to Aselia in my version whatsoever.

### Places

**Aselia** \- The name of the World according to Tales of Phantasia (which takes place roughly 4000 years after Tales of Symphonia games.) For the purposes of my story, It is the name of the nation that Tethe'alla and Sylvarant are a part of. Since Nirn and Tamriel are much larger than Aselia (game map wise) and much of Nirn is as yet uncharted, I incorporated Aselia onto the planet Nirn, rather than the continent Tamriel onto Aselia. Aselia, for my purposes, then, is made up of Sylvarant and Tethe'alla, two regions of one nation. [See map for details...](http://goron-king-darunia.deviantart.com/art/The-Maid-at-Rosethorn-Hall-Full-Map-Blank-365349066)

**Hakonesia Peak** \- A pass in the mountains between Luin and Palmacosta. It is the only way to get from one locale to the other without the use of a Rheiard.

**Lake Sinoa** \- The lake that surrounds Luin. There is a cave at the bottom that could be reached if the Lake dried up. However, since we are not following the canonical plot of ToS2, Lake Sinoa is still full of water.

**Luin** \- A town in Sylvarant. It was nearly entirely wiped out by the Desians prior to the world regeneration. The Heroes of Regeneration helped rebuild it. Statues of these Heroes can be seen all through the town. It is east of both Palmacosta and Hakonesia Peak.

**Palmacosta** \- A port city west of Luin and Hakonesia Peak. Emil Castagnier was born and raised here, prior to the Blood Purge. Marta was also, though oddly, they never met prior to the Blood Purge, even in the canon. In order to get out onto the open ocean, a vessel would have to sail around a cape to the west, then south then east along the continent's coast. (If they built a port along the east coast near Luin, it would be much easier to make it out to sea... Just a thought... maybe... _I'll_ build one there!

**Sylvarant** \- A more primitive nation that exists as part of Aselia. It has no unified national government, and relies instead on smaller localized government. It was its own world prior to the World Regeneration. It is home to the Chosen of Regeneration, Colette, who grew up in the town known as Iselia.

**Tethe'alla** \- A technologically advanced kingdom that exists as part of Aselia. It used to be its own world until the World Regeneration.

### Things

**Rheiards** \- Flying machines used and developed by Cruxis and the Renegades (known for a significant period of the game by the misnomer "Desians"). They are a kind of magi-technology that runs on the Summon Spirit Volt's mana. They take advantage of dimensional rifts and are the ultimate mode of transport in the ToS games.

### Random Fan-Service

**Arrietty** \- The lullaby Haskill sings to Richter is actually "The Neglected Garden", a song by Cécile Corbel. It is featured in Hayao Miyazaki's "The Secret World of Arrietty". [ Click here to take a listen! I did a pitch edit and this is kinda what I want readers to imagine Richter's mom sounds like.](http://goron-king-darunia.tumblr.com/private/83469026415/tumblr_n4ersfa6pw1rl90ws)

**Caravel** \- As a fan-service to One Piece Fans, I threw in a caravel (The Going Merry/ The Merry-Go was a caravel). Most ships in both games appear to be galleons, but I see no reason that they wouldn't have caravels too. I've seen at least one ship with lateen sails in both games (I think) so... it's automatically a caravel! *shot again*

**Lifts-Her-Tail** \- An obvious fan-service relating to the "Lusty Argonian Maid" play (see "The Lusty Argonian Maid"). In this case, she is merely an Argonian Tutor native to Black Marsh who tutors Richter in Jel. She is not at all related to the fictional Lifts-Her-Tail in the play. Her Black Marsh name is merely too difficult to pronounce since the phonemes do not exist in Tamrielic. Argonians with difficult to pronounce native names are often given "Cyrodiilic" names. Hauls-Ropes-Faster and Quill-Weave are also canonical examples of this.

**Lillies and Carnations** \- a reference to the 6th One Piece Movie. The Lily Carnation was a "flower" of life, death, and rebirth. The Barron lured pirates crews to the island in order to make their captains suffer the same fate he had - to lose their entire crew, making them believe it was all their fault. He would feed the fallen crew members to the Lily Carnation in order to keep his "crew" (a bunch of false, ageless replicas created by the Lily Carnation) "alive" (failing to feed Lily would cause the crew to age and weaken, eventually turning back into plants...)

**"The Lusty Argonian Maid"** \- A bawdy play popular in the Elder Scrolls game series. Its popularity due to the humorous suggestive text spawned a second scene only appearing in Skyrim. My addition is entirely mine, and was written to mimic the original canonical ones. Notably, it follows the style of speech patterns, suggestive references, and the ending two lines, which have appeared in the two canonical scenes.

**Passports** \- There is actually no evidence in either Tamriel or Aselia of needing passports for travel or immigration/emigration. I threw that in as a fan-service to... uh, the real world? So if you live in the real world and not in the digital world... Yay! Passports! Realism! *shot*

**Ma'Ikau** \- Double fan-service. First, it's a fan-service to M'aiq fans. M'aiq the liar is a recurring Khajiit in the Elder Scrolls games. Second, he's also a fan-service to Legend of Zelda fans who know the Majora's Mask game. Mikau was the name of the Zora Hero of the Great Bay area and the soul residing in the mask Link uses to become Zora Link. A slight third fan-service for people who know Japanese. Ma'Ikau contains the phonemes for the phrase "まぁ いっか", or Ma Ikka which loosely translates to "Oh, well." or "Whatever".

**Puppy Emil** \- In the fourth paragraph of Chapter 1, I describe Emil as "trembling like a puppy", which is, of course, a reference to one of Richter's remarks about the boy: "Are you a dog? Or are you really a man?"

**Same Language Phenomena** \- So how is it that Emil can speak "Tamrielic" though Tamriel and Aselia have been separate for centuries? Well, originally, the Ehlnofex language was the widespread predominant language of man and mer and eventually led to most of the diverse languages, including Cyrodiilic Tamrielic. The only language that does not share roots in Ehlnofex is Jel, which comes directly from Hist. The similar pantheons and names of the Gods seems to reflect these cultures were once united in language. Martel can be said to represent Mara, and I'm also just being lazy and taking that one almost-similar detail to justify Emil being able to speak Tamrielic. Bandai-Namco never explained how Tethe'alla and Sylvarant shared the same language despite a thousand year separation. So take this as a fan-service to every anime, manga, and story where the writers do the same as me: completely ignore the language barrier and make everyone speak a universal language. Yeah!

**The Two Squirrels** \- The two squirrels in Emil's yard which Marta marries are described as being both male and constantly fighting. This of course is a fan-service to original Norse myth and game plot. Ratatosk and Emil Castagnier are revealed in-game to be one in the same person, though they are distinct personalities. Emil's persona is constantly at odds with Ratatosk's, trying to suppress the Summon Spirit's violent tendencies, while Ratatosk struggles for complete control of his body, thinking himself braver and stronger and thus more suited to protect Marta, Emil/Ratatosk's canonical love-interest. Ratatosk - or Ratatoskr - originated in Norse myth, as a squirrel who ran up and down the World Tree, Yggdrasil, carrying messages between an eagle at the top and a wyrm at the bottom. Hence, I represented Emil/Ratatosk's internal turmoil in-game as two feuding squirrels.

**Vampirism** \- The vampires in the Elder Scrolls are actually canonical: they take sun damage, drink _human_ blood (or blood _not_ from animals), are masters of deception and manipulation, and, most importantly, do not sparkle like whatever God-awful creature Meyer created and tried to pass off as a "vampire". Although Hassildor and Vicente kind of sparkle... in their own way... but certainly not in the sun... they hate the sun! A fan-service to GingerFarnsworth who shares my disdain for Meyer's horrible excuse for a "vampire" - Edward "Sparkle-breeches" Cullen, and all his sparkly friends... Those are just creepy fairies on steroids, Meyer... not vampires...

**Why the Oblivion Crisis didn't happen in Aselia...** \- ... Ratatosk ate them... Any Daedra stupid enough to emerge in Aselia was promptly eaten by 'Tosky! Fan-service for ShadowedLightning and VaatisCloudy... Because there needed to be a little 'Tosky vore going on somewhere... (needless to say... he was _very_ full after the Oblivion Crisis finally ended... Mehrunes Dagon was lucky he didn't come through the Ginnungagap... or Ratatosk would be even _bigger_... LOL, but no, I kept the canon. Poor Martin, though... But I do not service Martin fan-girls... Yes, he's cute, but... come on... I'd rather have Lucien Lachance and Vincent Vicente back... Besides, Martin made a cool statue! *stabbed by Martin fan-girl mob* **Also! As ShadowedLightning suggested, since Mana is toxic to demons (which is the layman term for Daedra) and Ratatosk regulates the flow of mana through out Aselia, he might have utilized Mana to preemptively drive off the Daedra and protect Aselia.**


	2. Elegy of the "Not-So-Lucky" Ones...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emil sets off for a new life beyond the sea...

"B-but why?!" The young blond whined, tears welling up as he stood out on the dusty lane in front of the inn that his aunt and uncle lived above.

"Ungrateful wretch." A mousy-haired lady harrumphed, looking sideways at the sniffling blond, more than a little cross. "We let you stay with us all these years, rent free, giving you 3 meals, a warm bed, and now you get all teary-eyed because 'little baby you' doesn't want to work and earn his keep?!" She turned her attention to a man with a richer, darker brown shade of hair, whose mustache twitched as he also took on her angry expression and tone.

"What did you expect, Flora? We spoiled that boy... we should have made him begin working _years_ ago... We were too soft."

"Indeed." The woman named Flora turned her attention back to the sniveling boy, clutching the handle of a worn, brown leather suit case, trembling like a puppy that'd just been kicked without knowing what it had done wrong. "The boy's always been a worthless lout, sitting around all day like the world revolved around him."

 _That's only because every time I left the house, you_ beat _me..._ , the blond thought to himself as he continued to stare at his shoes.

"Well, brat, it's time you learned what life is really like. Living costs money, see? And money doesn't just fall into your lap. You have to work your fingers to the bone to scrape by in this world, and we've had to work those bones _to the marrow _to support a dependent little whelp like you."__

 _And to support Uncle Alba's drinking habit..._ The blond frowned to himself, not having the courage to speak his thoughts aloud. He knew better than that; Aunt Flora had always been passive aggressive towards him, but it was Alba that he was really afraid of. Alba had once beaten him senseless after a night of particularly heavy drinking, accusing the blond of sneaking the last of his stash, though he himself had spilled the last of it not moments before while staggering to the ice-chest for something to help kill the harsh taste of the hard liquor. Flora, obviously, had not defended him from Alba's wrath, and long since then, many of these incidents had ensued. Not once had either of them apologized to him. But... well, they were family. Since his parents died, that little loft space and those two abusive caretakers were all he had known. It had been so long; he had nearly forgotten what it was like before these nearly-daily beatings and demeaning comments about his personality and behavior.

"So, now it's your turn. _You're_ going to help support _us_ now." Flora interrupted the boy's train of thought, speaking very matter-of-factly, as though he should have known this day was coming and that he should have been more prepared for this 'inevitable' fate than he was. "You'll be working for a nobleman across the seas, on the mainland - Tamriel." 

_Tamriel?!_ , the blond balked. _That's nearly halfway 'round the world!_

"He lives in Skingrad, and that's a high-end town... It'll take a bit of getting used to, so do it quick! We don't want your rural 'charms' startling him." Skingrad... that made it _exactly_ halfway around the world from Luin. "Now, we want you to blend in there; knowing you, you'll probably find some other way to stick out like a stupid tourist and get laughed at by the locals, but in any case..." Flora handed the boy a little satchel filled with a few gold coins. "Use that money to buy yourself some local attire. You want to look your best when you meet your employer. _Use it all._ Don't want you getting fired before you even begin, showing up at his doorstep looking like a country bumpkin..."

"That's the last of the money we'll be giving you." Alba interjected. "After you get settled in, you'll be sending the entirety of your paycheck to us."

" _A-all_ of it?!" The young blond whimpered. "B-but how will I buy food and --?"

"Don't be ridiculous. You'll be working as a butler, or something like that, which means you'll be living at the manor. They'll be feeding you and housing you. There's absolutely no need for you to have pocket money. Especially not with that horrid Skooma trade going on in Cyrodiil lately... wouldn't want you turning into the one thing worse than the sorry codpiece you already are." The blond frowned at this. Skooma - a hallucinogenic, highly addictive drug that had been exploding in popularity in Tamriel lately. They said the count's son in Bravil was a notorious Skooma addict and a wastrel. But with all the things he was going to have to worry about, Skooma was the least of his problems. How was he going to buy new clothes? Flora and Alba had provided him with enough for two new outfits at most. And that would be buying lower-class attire... buying something suitable to present oneself to a noble in would require nearly twice what he was given. He might be able to afford some high-class panties when he arrived and maybe have enough left to ship his dejected ass home when he got fired. What were they expecting him to do? Sell all of his belongings and work the corners like a slattern to raise the rest of the money?!

"Now, then, you've dawdled long enough. Get your ass in the carriage and get a move on. Just remember, your Aunt and I worked hard to secure you a position there, so don't screw this up! And don't get any funny ideas. If you don't keep sending us the money, you better expect to stay in Tamriel for a _long_ time. Keep any of your paycheck and you can kiss your room here goodbye, is that clear?!"

"Y-yes, Uncle Alba..." the blond muttered, tossing his bag onto the rack on the roof of the rickety, horse-drawn buggy.

"And you better spend the trip practicing how to speak properly; if that noble hears you stutter you'll be out on the curb faster than you'd finish the second syllable!" Alba slammed the door shut after the boy clumsily clambered inside.

"And don't bother writing." Flora added. "We don't need you slacking off on the job to scribble out some half-baked nonsense about how great your new job is. Just send the paychecks... saves money on postage."

"Yes, Aunt F-Flora..." the blond cringed at the unintentional stutter.

"Damn it, Emil. Stop it with the stuttering! Just get the hell out of here! That ferry's not going to wait forever!" Alba folded his arms irately, with a glare - one that didn't address him as a person so much as it did select his general location with a sense of loathing - directed at Emil.

The boy gave a half-hearted wave and nodded to the driver, who started the carriage off with a click of the tongue and a flick of the reigns.

The carriage swayed side to side, rocking gently over the uneven trail that curved around the banks of Lake Sinoa, steadily climbing the slope to the pass at Hakonesia Peak. The creaking of the wooden joints and the steady pace of the steed's footfalls were somehow soothing to Emil. He found himself drifting in and out of consciousness, lulled to brief lapses of slumber as the carriage rattled on along the well-worn path. He had few dreams, and those that he did have were more nostalgic than comforting. He remembered his mom, the way she used to smile and usher him outside to play while she did the laundry; the first time she ever walked him to school, paper-bagged lunch with his name on it in that gentle, curving cursive she used, a little note next to his sandwich wishing him a good day, or taped to the lid of his thermos of soup telling him to get well soon on the days that he toughed it out with a stubborn cold. He remembered his dad, too. He always made such bad jokes in an attempt to cheer Emil up whenever he was upset about something, and had always been the "rock" in the family, the steadfast one that you could count on for anything. Emil missed them both. Even though his aunt and uncle had served as a substitute nuclear family unit, Emil didn't feel the kind of connection most people might expect with blood relatives.

He had felt like an intruder, even from the start, before he had become the submissive, timid, boy that he was now infamous for being. He had moved to Luin with nothing but the clothes on his back, alone, completely alone... His mother had told him to seek out his Aunt Flora and Uncle Alba in Luin, told him to seek refuge there, escape the horrible massacre at Palmacosta. But, after living with them for two years, Emil felt like it might have been better to just die there, with his mom and dad. At least he would fit in there... in a coffin with the rest. But, Emil was too strong to die, too spirited to just give up. He had been different then. It was his mother's sister, so he supposed at the time he expected her to be like his mother. Now, Emil wondered what insanity could have made him believe that delusion. Flora had been nothing like his mother, and whatever expectations he had for the town were crushed soon after. 

Luin had never taken a shine to strangers, and if his relatives' reactions were anything to go by, Emil should have expected the less-than-cordial welcome he received from the rest of the town. He might have been prompted to stand up for himself if they had been cruel immediately, might have met harsh words with some of his own, might have proven himself to be a confident young man who had merely hit a patch of hard luck, someone who deserved respect and pity for the fate he had been dealt. But this was not the situation he was met with. It was with initial dismissive regard and lack of recognition that the town had "welcomed" him and that had made Emil the soft-spoken, shy young man he was. In many ways, being ignored was worse than being hated. At least, if you were hated, you were acknowledged, you were a person, you existed... Emil was not given any such blessing as to be hated... he might as well have been a speck of dirt for the first few weeks he was there. A stray dog would have received more attention than he did.

After a while, that passiveness grew into loathing, and while this should have triggered Emil to rise up against the antagonism, he had been conditioned to desire attention - _any_ attention - and his personality reflected this. He became the victim, simply as a way to gain attention; a self-perpetuated torture, self-inflicted pain, just out of the desire to feel _something_ again. He subconsciously adopted a pattern of behavior that would earn him those beatings and scoldings, because attention was recognition, and that felt like belonging. Indecisiveness, submissiveness, anhedonia, sullenness, these were all things that earned him that negative attention. But, this was all false... a disguise he assumed to be accepted by the community. It had been years since he'd really behaved like himself... he almost forgot what it felt like. Almost.

This rejection brought him nearly as much pain as it did relief. The only place he had left to call home, the only living people left he could call family, the last "safe" place he knew he would always have had just abandoned him, refused him, threw him out. No matter how horrible a place it was, it was a terrible thing to lose one's only sense of "home". But it was liberating. He could reach beyond that false self for a while, and dip his toes back into his true self. This felt inviting, this felt encouraging. He was moving on, starting fresh, crossing the threshold into a new life. And the cementation of this reality was just around the bend; he was literally going to be waving goodbye to both his old selves, both his "homes", leaving everything familiar. It would be a new continent, a new nation, a new province... And he couldn't possibly sink lower than he already had. That was the only true benefit of hitting rock bottom - there was nowhere left to go but up. The natural inclination to fear the new and cling to the familiar was certainly a part of his current emotional state, but that wanderlust and thirst for something new, something brighter, was far more consuming than some petty fear.

The carriage lurched as it went over a bump and the soft sound of trotting hooves on dirt suddenly morphed into hard stomps on brick-paved streets. The carriage turned a corner and ground to a halt, the driver muttering a tranquil "whoa" to the thoroughbred pulling the cart. Emil rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and sat up, stretching as he felt the cart-driver dismount. The door to his left opened and the man held out a hand to help him out. Emil stepped out into the salt-thick air and the screeching of the gulls, shielding his eyes against the bright sunlight of his hometown, Palmacosta. It looked much the same as Emil remembered it, brightly colored, whimsical architecture, flowers decorating the plaza and windowsills. It was recovering well for a town that had been attacked and nearly decimated not more than two years ago. The driver lifted the suitcase from the roof of the cart and handed it down to Emil who took the bag with a small "thank you".

"So..." the old man mumbled, "you know your way around here? You sure you can get to the proper dock and everything?" Emil nodded. "Alright... Safe travels, boy." The man tipped his hat and climbed back onto his cart again, heading back along the road to Luin.

Emil sighed, hoisting the suitcase over his shoulder and heading off toward the docks. He took lovesick glances around him as he passed various landmarks, the school, the churchyard, the park benches and tables in the square. Everywhere he looked, he had flashes of his childhood here, of his mother and father, his old friends. This was the hardest thing to leave... Deserting pain, no matter how mundane it had become, was always hard. He kept on walking, even as that nostalgia tugged at his heart and wrenched tears from his eyes. Then he froze, the air around him just as cold and still as his heart.

Before him was the familiar white form, terracotta shingles, squared windows, porch facing north with the little wind-chime and bird feeder hanging off the eaves. This was his house... this was where he grew up. It had been rebuilt almost perfectly, but he could pick out the differences; the tiles that used to be missing had been replaced, the bricks on the front stoop had been laid in a slightly different pattern, the little drawings he had done on the north wall with the permanent pen; the drawings his mother had scolded him for; the drawings that they all grew to love, of "Mommmy" and "Duddy" and "EEMIL!" with the backwards E's... They had been painted over... The little handprints he had made in the fresh cement when they poured out the porch foundation when he was five, gone, filled in.

The gnarled tree he used to climb as a boy, the one he had fallen from and skinned both hands and knees when he was seven, and mommy had been out, so daddy had to kiss them better; the tree where he had played house with Marta, his first friend ever, where they had "married" when they were 10 - absent, vanished, either burned during the Blood Purge or uprooted during the remodeling and replaced with lilies and carnations. He knew that Marta herself was gone, too.

He remembered the time he had spent with her, his only real 'friend'. It wasn't that Emil was particularly shy... at least, not nearly as shy as he had become now. You could say he was just lacking in the people skills department. Marta was his first friend, and really, the only one he had needed as a child. She had kind of forced the relationship on him, tackling him on the playground one day at school when Emil was about five-and-a-half. She had initiated and perpetuated the whole thing single-handedly. All Emil really had to do was sit there and let it happen. She was the talkative type. Maybe _too_ talkative... Emil didn't mind, though; a friend was a friend. She was a very... _physical_ girl, too, always hugging him and tugging on his hair, pulling him this way or that by one of his arms to show him something so she could talk about it. They were both kind of misfits, really. He was so quiet that no one else paid him any mind; he was so easy to ignore. Marta, on the other hand, was so rambunctious that most other people couldn't stand her. So that made them a _pair_ of misfits. And in that, they were united. They weren't alone anymore; they _belonged._

Marta was always an odd child. She'd always had a habit of pairing things off, as far back as Emil could remember, even before Marta was really familiar with the concept of marriage. Once she _was_ acquainted with the concept, however, she began to marry any two things that had a pulse, sometimes even things that didn't. Aside from herself and Emil, Marta had married the pair of doves that visited their window box each year, even when it was obvious it was a different generation, the neighbor's cat and dog (twice), the two squirrels that frequented Emil's backyard, though they were both male and fought constantly, _any_ two seagulls that were seen within close proximity of each other, regardless of the maintenance of that proximity, and once, she had married a dead skunk (found dead in the plaza after being hit by a carriage the previous night) with a pigeon she had spotted across from the fountain. 

Emil hadn't really understood it as an obsession back then, and even now, looking back, he was rather tolerant of it. Marriage, according to the general consensus, was "the most important event in a woman's life". So it vaguely made sense to Emil that Marta would be conditioned to try to marry everything. And Emil didn't mind being 'married' to Marta, really. He didn't see it as a serious thing, and he accepted it more to humor her than anything else. In reality, he had never had much interest in girls. They made good friends, he supposed, but having to live his entire life with one - especially Marta - seemed an exhausting, tiresome endeavor. His father had often teased him about it, asking him along with the usual "How was school today?", a playful "How's the 'wife'?" "Wife", to Emil, had very little meaning outside of "Marta" and "my father is to my mother as husband is to wife". So Emil wasn't really all that bothered by the affectionate teasing at home. Any bullying that had occurred because of it was usually dealt with by Marta. She chased away almost anyone that tried to poke fun at Emil about his "girlfriend", correcting them by introducing the term "wife" and beating the tar out of anyone stupid enough not to run when she charged at them. Needless to say, she spent a lot of time in detention.

The last time he saw her was after the events of the Blood Purge. Nearly everyone lost their home, and a lot of people in Emil's neighborhood died. He lived near the docks, so "escaping" meant running into the plaza and then out to the fields. That, of course, meant running toward the people with the swords... Emil lost both his parents that night, and Marta lost her mother. Her father, Brute, had offered to take him along with them now that he had no family. They were going to travel the world. Marta had begged him to come with her, but Emil clung to the last thing his mother had told him: go to his Aunt and Uncle in Luin. That meant family. That meant a home. It was more appealing than traveling, anchorless and alone, at the time. This was, of course, before Emil knew what horrible people his Aunt and Uncle were. He wished he had gone with Marta... But there was no way to change that now. He had no way of knowing where she was, no way of contacting her. She might have been in Tamriel for all he knew. But the only way he'd be meeting her again would be if some ridiculous spark of luck brought them together. And with the prospects ahead of him, that seemed the most unlikely of chance events. All things considered, she was gone.

But the most heart-breaking difference of all was the "For Sale" sign taped up in the bay window. The property was technically his, guaranteed by his parents' last will and testament, but he was still only sixteen, and so it belonged to his aunt and uncle by default until he was old enough to own it. And they were selling it - or _trying_ to - likely to scrape together more money to enable Alba's alcoholism.

If Emil wasn't already crying, he would have started then... It had been haunting him at the back of his mind, the likelihood of this horrid reality, but he had denied it, avoided thinking about it, ignored it for so long because it gave him one ray of hope. He couldn't ignore it anymore. Now there was nothing left for him in Palmacosta... _Nothing_. The bitterest of tears stung his eyes and poured down his moist, sorrow-streaked cheeks. Goodbyes were always difficult, Emil knew that... and every minute he spent there, surrounded by broken memories, made it harder to stay, but infinitely more painful to leave. He had to remind himself that pain like this wouldn't last, and more importantly, that his new life awaited him across the seas. He couldn't let these emotions drag him down, not with everything else that was at stake. Wounds of the past would heal with time; in the meantime, he needed to focus on the future. He hurriedly wiped his tears away on the corner of his shirt, dashing off toward the harbor to board the vessel that would take him away from all this... the ship that would take him to Tamriel.

Though Aselia, compared to Tamriel, was technologically advanced, sailing was still the primary form of transit. While Tethe'allans could enjoy the convenience of flying machines - a personal sort of flying "jet ski", if you really looked at the design... Rheiards, they were called, if Emil's memory served him right - they were falling out of use. They weren't exactly manufactured for consumers to begin with... They were originally meant for combat; the Desians had created them specifically for their dynamics and speed, which would serve them in aerial combat, and they took advantage of dimensional rifts, allowing _even faster_ transportation. But this, of course, made owning one a black mark on one's record since they were associated with the villains of the "Pre-Regeneration" world, before Tethe'alla and Sylvarant were united. Yet another problem was the power source: mana. Using magi-technology like Rheiards was taxing on the land's mana, and with the new World Tree still so young, it was dangerous to use mass quantities of mana. The first tree had died from over-use of magi-technology, and Tethe'alla and Sylvarant had both been in a state of perpetual chaos, vying for the remaining mana until the recent world regeneration. Unlike Tamriel, Aselia only had access to "local mana" - the mana produced by the World Tree. Without it, they had no renewable source of mana, which of course would make magi-technology useless. And, moreover, Emil was from Sylvarant, and the only Sylvaranti that ever had access to Rheiards were the Chosen and her group (which, of course, Emil was not a part of).

They did have other technologies developed in Tethe'alla that ran on electricity. They were spreading fairly quickly throughout Sylvarant now, even across the sea to Tamriel, but they weren't nearly wide-spread enough to replace the steam and wind powered technologies already dominant in Sylvarant. Tamriel itself relied on magic as convenience, but technology was extremely limited, despite the nation's size. The vast cultural and societal differences between provinces were likely to blame for that. Plumbing and steam power had only just begun to develop in most provinces, and only through contact between Aselia and Tamriel did the industrialization really take root and grow. Still, steam-power was costly, especially in Tamriel, and Sylvarant had only a few steam-ships, most of which were on commission for Tethe'alla for business and trade purposes with Tamriel. So sailing was still the predominant mode of transportation, as far as tourism and travel were concerned. It took longer than the other options (drastically so compared to Rheiards), and was thus less expensive, so even if there _were_ commercial steam-ships available, his aunt and uncle wouldn't pay for it, even if it meant the possibility of one extra week's worth of his salary. Emil didn't mind, though. There was something nostalgic about the old sailing ships. Knowing his cheap relatives, he half-expected a dinghy, but was pleasantly surprised when he arrived at the dock, taking in the form of the majestic vessel as it loomed over the others at the jetties.

The ship was a sturdy looking vessel, with crisp white sails and a sturdy wooden hull - Emil figured it was probably an oak hull with what smelled like cedar planking (how unusual that after years at sea it still retained some of its spicy scent) but Emil wasn't very sure. He had never seen a ship quite like it. The artistic aspects - carved figure-head, rail detail, and all the rest of the little novel wood-workings - were unlike anything Emil had witnessed before; it was undoubtedly of Tamrielic origin. He knew only a little about seafaring and boats and the like and much less about carpentry and the technical things more suited to a shipwright than a boy such as himself. It was a caravel, he knew that much at least, but it was the first time he'd be riding on one. As a boy, he'd been to the harbor, learned about the different ships and some of the nautical terms: port, starboard, fore and aft... Main, mizzen, and foremast, but the individual sails were beyond his scope, never mind the complex rigging. He recognized words like "keel" and "hull", but didn't really remember how to distinguish the difference... the keel was the back part of the hull if he remembered correctly, but he wouldn't feel confident in that answer if you asked him. He also knew of something called the "Fo'c's'le", but he didn't have any clue what that was or where to find it on a ship; he only remembered because that was the name of the Inn he would be staying at his first day in Tamriel. After that, he would be taken from County Anvil to County Kvatch by cart; two Argonians named Quill-Weave and Hauls-Ropes-Faster had agreed to take him. From County Kvatch, he'd be escorted on horseback by an orc, Batul gra-Sharob. Emil wasn't all that eager to be mingling with the beast-folk and mer so soon in his travels (he had always tended to be xenophobic), but he supposed he'd be meeting all sorts of people in Tamriel, and he would just have to get used to it.

Still, all these concerns paled in comparison to the thing that had been bothering him most about this new "job". He still had no idea of the particulars. He knew not for whom he would be working, nor what position he might be expected to fill, what capacities he might be required to demonstrate. He'd really only been told the bare essence of it all: he was to meet with a man named Haskill outside of the West Weald Inn, and from there, he would be shown around town before being led to his new residence and workplace - the manor of his new lord and master, some nobleman whose name his aunt and uncle hadn't even done the favor of providing. Emil could really only think of two reasons for that: either his aunt and uncle didn't care enough to mention something as inconsequential as a name - or perhaps just couldn't be bothered to remember it - or, as Emil was more inclined to believe, they deliberately avoided mentioning the name because this noble was infamous for one reason or another, and didn't want to lose the prospect of a potential income just because Emil (or any _sane_ person) would refuse to work for someone like that. They seemed just the kind to do that, to place him in the servitude of a less-than-respectable rich man just to earn a little cash and avoid dealing with their "burden of a nephew". Still, Emil wasn't going to worry too much about that, not yet at least. He couldn't imagine anything worse than his current life, and he couldn't imagine anyone crueler than his aunt and uncle. Already, just the relief of being _away_ from them - far enough that it would be a bother to come after him and drag him home by the hair for abusing - made him optimistic. If things somehow managed to get worse, he'd worry about it then. Worrying, after all, didn't make his life any better, and at the moment, the possibility of change seemed much more inviting than living this hellish life any longer.

He dug around in his pockets for his identification papers, passport, and the ticket his aunt and uncle had given him. He presented the papers to the burly man guarding the ship. He scanned them, gave a quick nod, tore the ticket, and handed the stub and the rest of the boy's personal papers back to Emil. "Down the stairs on the foredeck, first room on the left. Dinner is at 5:00, breakfast at 6:00, and lunch at noon. But, remember, this ain't no pleasure cruise, so in the event of a squall, everyone helps, including you. Other than that, you're free to do as you please. You get your orders from that man there." He pointed to a tall, dark-skinned man with wiry hair and a scruffy beard and a long coat who was standing behind the helm, taking wind measurements and charting a course on a map. "Captain Tucher's his name. If he tells you somethin', you'd best do it. Not that he'd have a reason to, unless... you know, a storm blows up. Just try to stay out of the way, alright, kid?"

Emil nodded. He stuffed his papers back into his pocket and hoisted his pack over his shoulder again, climbing the ramp from the dock to the deck, stumbling a bit as the rolling waves shifted the boat. He blushed and righted himself quickly before anyone noticed his clumsiness, and took extra care in walking in a (somewhat) dignified manner as he ascended the rest of the ramp. It wasn't that he didn't have sea-legs. He did. He really did. Seemingly _permanent ones_ actually. Thankfully, Emil had grown up around boats most of his childhood, and he never got sea-sick, but he didn't have the most graceful gait, even on solid ground, so movement didn't help him much. Once on deck, he was a bit better, not having to adjust his stride to accommodate an incline like before. He took a quick look about the ship, trying to remember all the things his dad had taught him about ships as a boy. He kind of wished he had listened more, but... well, he was a boy, short attention span and all that. He had never really expected to need to know things like rigging and navigation, but now, when he might be asked to pitch in during a storm, he was a bit worried that he'd mess things up, or just plain embarrass himself, not knowing what was what. He had never really expected to be without his father, either, and a small part of him that had recognized the importance of the lessons as a child had just assured him that, if he needed a refresher, he could always ask Dad. Now, that was not an option. He wracked his brain, able to recall a few things, the names of the masts - the foremast, main mast, and mizzen mast, all in the proper order from the bow to the stern; the booms which could be manipulated easily to hoist both square sails and lateen sails; some of the running rigging (though he mostly remembered the terms themselves and not their purpose or the actual thing referred to by said term), mainly the clewgarnet, halyards, tacks, and sheets. Other than that, he really only knew the basic terminology that any layman would know who had ever heard of a boat - sails, rudder, helm, flag, rope, anchor, chain, hull, deck, cannon, crew, wind, squall, seagull, and ocean.

He felt more and more useless every time his eyes glanced over at a thing he could not name, or muddled with some purpose of a component he could not decipher, and he dejectedly trudged down the stairs, hoping for fair weather for the expressly selfish purpose of not having to help out. He turned the old brass knob on the first door on the left, and slunk into the room, kicking the door shut with his foot as soon as he was inside. It was smaller than he thought it would be, about half the size of his room back home, but he supposed that ships like these reserved much more room for cargo and supplies for profit and ease of travel. Most of the crew was on deck during the day, some continuing for part of the night watch. Only 40 percent of the crew was ever really below deck at any time, and usually all sleeping, preparing to rotate for the next shift. Emil supposed that made excessive sleeping space meaningless and unprofitable.

There were two hammocks, hanging one above the other, on the left side of the room, and a small table and two chairs directly ahead of him. A storage rack was to his right, bolted to the floor with netting around each shelf to prevent the contents from shifting out during rough weather. A few bottles of preserves and some medicine took up some space on the bottom shelf and a bag of flour rested on the second shelf. A tunic and belt were folded in a tight bundle beside that and what appeared to be a loincloth was hanging over the netting. Emil cringed and wondered idly if it had been worn recently as he stuffed his bag into the space between the third shelf and the actual top shelf, right beside a small floral print dress and leggings. The blond sighed and walked the short distance back over to the hammock, collapsing onto what he thought was an unoccupied pile of blankets and pillows. Unfortunately, the pile was not quite as unoccupied as he thought...

"REEEEOOOOOW!" A sound akin to an amplified cat's yowl pierced the air, and claws sank into Emil's tender buttocks as the covers beneath him stirred into a little, musty storm of faded green and white as whatever he had sat on attempted to claw its way out from under his buns. Emil let out his own wail of pain and surprise as ten little daggers hooked into his ass and he sprang immediately to his feet, rubbing the spot where he had been groped and staring at the frumpy mess of sheets as his "attacker" emerged.

"What's the big idea?! Ma'Ikau will skin the fool alive!" A feisty ball of sandy fur and fury sprang at him, claws and fangs bared. Digitigrade like a cat, but not a cat, a boy, almost human if not for the nose, ears, fur, and piercing cat-eyed glare. Paw-like hands were at his throat, and a being almost _too_ light for its apparent frame was upon his chest, pinning him to the floor. "Ma'Ikau does _not_ appreciate being sat on." it hissed.

Emil, dumbfounded, stared up into those golden eyes, not knowing how, exactly, to classify his assailant or what he ought to do to avoid its wrath. He supposed he should begin with an apology, but he found himself nearly entirely disabled, simply from the shock of such and unexpected confrontation. "I-I'm s-s-sorry..." the blond mumbled, flinching as the grip around his throat tightened, nails digging into his skin.

"What is 'it' doing in Ma'Ikau's room, and what does 'it' want?" By now, Emil was certain that this "Ma'Ikau" was this cat-boy's name, but the "it" in this context made no sense.

"'It'? What 'it'?" Emil asked, earning a frustrated growl in response.

"This one is Ma'Ikau," the boy pointed to himself, "What is _it_ called?!" Ma'Ikau pointed at some non-descript component of Emil, somewhere around his chest.

"M-my shirt?" Emil wondered aloud in a skeptical tone. The furry child flew into a fit.

"Agh! Ridiculous Tamrielic language! The one that sat on Ma'Ikau! The one that has just been pounced on! The one Ma'Ikau is on top of! What is its name?!"

Emil suddenly understood that the 'it' was a word referring to him and blushed, suddenly feeling responsible for this miscommunication. "O-oh... I'm Emil..." the blond muttered. "Sorry... I've never talked to a 'cat' before, and..." The claws at his throat dug deeper into the flesh.

"Ma'Ikau... is _not..._ a 'cat'..." the threatening tone made Emil shake, though this might have appeared an empty threat to an outsider, who would have seen the ridiculous size difference between the two, with Ma'Ikau being comically diminutive compared to Emil. "Ma'Ikau is Khajiit. Suthay-raht Khajiit, okay?"

"Okay." Emil squeaked.

"Good." Ma'Ikau forcibly let go of the boy. "Now, what does 'Emil' want, here?"

"I-I was told to c-come here. Th-the man at the d-dock told me that this w-was to be my room..."

"Ah, so it is the 'fresh meat' Ma'Ikau has heard about... such a Ja'Khajiit Emil is..."

"Khajiit?" Emil pointed to himself with a questioning look. He had extrapolated the root from the word without the prefix, but even had he not, he would not understand the meaning.

" _Ja'Khajiit._ " Ma'Ikau corrected. "Imperials might use the term 'kitten'..."

"Imperials?" Nearly every term the Khajiit boy was using confused Emil.

"Emil is not Imperial? Breton?" Emil shook his head. "Well, he is certainly not Redguard."

" _Redguard_? I don't understand!" Emil threw his hands up, too frustrated to care that he was acting more childish than Ma'Ikau.

"Ngh... men use some term for this... 'Race?' Yes, that's it. What race does Emil belong to?"

"Human." Emil said indignantly, as though that should be obvious.

"Yes, but what kind?"

"No kind, just human."

"What were the parents?"

"Human."

"So he does not know his own race. That is amusing." Ma'Ikau howled with laughter, seeming to forget his prior anger toward the boy. "Then Ma'Ikau decides that Emil is a Nede. That is the closest Tamriel has for 'just human'." He folded his arms proudly. "Ma'Ikau feels smarter than little Nede Ja'Khajiit! Even though Ma'Ikau only has 10 years! How many years has Emil got?"

"Huh? Oh, how old am I? I'm 16."

"Ha! If Emil was Khajiit, his friends would be embarrassed, and would not let him take the nickname Ja'Emil! That's what Ma'Ikau would do!" The Khajiit muttered something with a lot of "ma" syllables and ended with Emil's name, laughing hysterically.

"Wh-what's so funny?!" Emil demanded, picking himself off the floor and dusting himself off at last.

"Ah, it cannot be translated; Ta'agra does not translate well to any language. All it needs to know, 'M'Emil', is it will always be a 'kitten' if it doesn't get out and see the world!"

"'M'Emil'? What are you talking about _now_?!" Emil was frustrated beyond words, barely able to follow the conversation.

"'Ma' is a Ta'agra word, meaning child, or apprentice, or _virgin_. Ma'Ikau is a child. M'Emil is a virgin!" Ma'Ikau snickered, swishing his tail.

Emil turned a bright shade of pink. "I-I'm not--! W-well, I kinda am, but... What d-does that have to do with anything a-anyw-way?!"

"Virgins are... uninitiated... M'Emil has much to learn."

"W-well, then teach me!" Emil said with a determined look.

"Hmph, Ma'Ikau would like to teach little Nede, but Ma'Ikau must sleep now. Ma'Ikau must be alert for the Night Watch."

"O-okay! I'll sleep, too, and come with you for the night shift! You can teach me then!"

"No, Ma'Ikau has a job. Ma'Ikau is the only Khajiit on Night Watch. Ma'Ikau must use his natural eyes to watch for rocks and must help the Captain with his charts, and climb the yards and haul the lines, and much, much more work that only Ma'Ikau can do."

"Oh... Oh, I see." Emil sulked. He really knew so little about Tamriel, and this boy was a native to that land. He could afford to learn so much before he arrived, and he would need to if he wanted to make a good impression. He didn't want to accidentally insult his new boss like he had insulted Ma'Ikau, and knowing the traditions of the land, it's various cultures and customs, the social hierarchy, _everything_ was important.

"However..." Ma'Ikau added, "Ma'Ikau can teach M'Emil at meals... And if M'Emil wants to follow Ma'Ikau, this one won't try to stop M'Emil..."

"R-really?! Thank you!" Emil was beaming.

Ma'Ikau climbed back into the hammock and balled up under the covers. "In exchange, Ja'Khajiit will help Ma'Ikau to master this ridiculous language. Deal?"

"Deal." The Khajiit stuck his paw out from under the covers, a gesture that was unmistakably meant as a handshake cue, and Emil took it in his own hand without hesitation.

"He may take the top." Ma'Ikau pointed at the hammock hanging over him. "Ma'Ikau will explain things to Jo'Kasha when she gets back."

"Jo'Kasha?" Emil inquired as he climbed the narrow wooden steps built into the wall, practically throwing himself into the hammock to avoid losing his footing trying to make the awkward reach-around to the suspended cloth.

"Ma'Ikau's litter-mate. Nede might prefer the word 'sister'." Emil thought to himself that she must be the owner of that dress he saw. "She is the only other Khajiit on this boat. Sister does all the Day Work, because she is older and can do more than Ma'Ikau can. Ma'Ikau is important because Ma'Ikau is small; Ma'Ikau can fit places others cannot. Soon, Jo'Kasha will be too big, and Ma'Ikau will have to take the Day Work instead. Right now, we are valuable because we are small, but soon, we will be valuable because we are Khajiit. We see in the dark, and are natural climbers. Jo'Kasha is good with magic, and Ma'Ikau is an acrobat; together, we get the important things done here."

"So... You don't have parents?" Emil asked hesitantly. He was familiar with the pain of losing his parents, and he knew how touchy this subject could be.

Ma'Ikau took a moment to reply. "Nede really _doesn't_ know anything about Tamriel, does he? Our parents... Khajiit in general... are taken as slaves from Elsweyr, our home. Jo'Kasha and Ma'Ikau were lucky. We journeyed to Cyrodiil; slavery is much less common there. We got work, we keep our freedom. Some are lucky like us... some are not so lucky."

"What happens to the... 'not-so-lucky' ones?" Emil probed prudently, curious, but knowing full well that the slightest mistake in his wording could provoke anger or stir up bad memories in the boy, and Emil was not only concerned for himself (additional claw marks were not a fashion he coveted), but he sympathized with the young Khajiit. His own parents had been 'not-so-lucky'...

"They are taken, old, young, doesn't matter. Different provinces take them, but mostly Morrowind. Slavery is still common there. Most who are taken never come back..."

"I'm sorry..." Emil muttered, genuinely upset to hear that such a thing was not banned. Slavery tore families apart just as much as war did. And at least the refugees of war had some closure in knowing their loved ones were dead. The Khajiit left behind did not even have the benefit of knowing whether their loved one was still suffering. Emil wrapped the blankets around himself tighter, starting to dislike this new nation and its providential laws.

"Ja'Khajiit has no reason to be sorry. He should be happy he does not grow up knowing this. He was blessed to be kept innocent M'Emil all these years. Ma'Ikau had to grow up early to survive. But Ma'Ikau is also lucky, and so he is happy. Ma'Ikau got away; Ma'Ikau got a chance to grow up. Growing up early and free is better than not growing up at all..."

What a morbid thing to say. Emil whimpered, suddenly preferring the hellish life on his own shores to this horrible New World. "Is it like that everywhere?" Emil whispered.

"No. Most places not. Some places are worse than Morrowind, some are better."

"Wh-what about, uh...", it took Emil a few moments to recall the name of the province County Skingrad was located in. "Cyrodiil. What is it like there?"

"So far, Ma'Ikau thinks it is the best of the provinces he has visited. Slavery still exists, but much of it is 'hush-hush', as they say. Black Market. But not many buy slaves, except the Dark Elves. So, Morrowind natives that can't let go of luxuries. But at least there is the freedom to do that. Cyrodiil is many things, but above all, it is free. Ma'Ikau likes that best. You can buy Moonsugar there..." Ma'Ikau purred.

"Moonsugar?"

"It is a gift from the gods, according to Ma'Ikau's people. They say the light of the two moons is crystallized in the waters of the Topal Sea and carried to the sugar cane groves of Tenmar by the twin tides. There, it is absorbed into the sugar cane. We Khajiit eat it, and with it, the souls of Jode and Jone, the moon gods. Ma'Ikau loved Moonsugar as a Ja'Khajiit; used to sneak into the sugar cane groves late at night and steal a bit, because Ja'Khajiit usually aren't allowed to have it, except on _very_ special occasions."

"Sounds... interesting..." Emil nodded, wondering what could possibly be so special about this sugar, and if the young Khajiit actually believed that legend. "What is it used for? Ceremonial purposes?"

"And Skooma..." The Khajiit boy yawned.

Emil gaped, certain he had heard wrong. "Wh-what?!"

"Moonsugar is refined to create a narcotic: Skooma. Men and Mer tend to not be able to handle its effects like Khajiit do, so it is usually best for them to not touch the stuff. However, some seem to have quite pleasant reactions. Depends on the person. Used for recreational purposes mostly, especially among men in Cyrodiil."

Emil fell conspicuously silent. His bunkmate, a mere child, was already familiar with - a _user_ of! - Skooma, the one thing his aunt and uncle emphatically forbade him to get involved with. Not that he cared all that much about what they thought of him, but they _were_ the only family he had left, and despite his hatred for them, he wanted whatever meager "acceptance" they had for him. Based on his experiences, a horrible family was better than no family. But beyond that, Emil had a certain disdain for drugs. Maybe it was just from lack of knowledge on the subject, or the prevalent stereotype that all drug users, including those who drank alcohol, were all self-abusing addicts suffering from the vices of one drug or another. Either way, he didn't fancy keeping drug-users in his circle of "friends".

But, this boy was his only teacher... this was his only chance to really familiarize himself with this new country, its citizens, and their cultures. And the kid seemed all-in-all a good person. Maybe he was just making it all up, to seem "cool" or "adult-like" to Emil, perpetuating his own notion of superiority by demonstrating his knowledge of the dark, seedy underbelly of Tamreilic life by falsifying experiences that would seem "mature".

"I see." Emil's blunt response finally came, hiding whatever distrust the boy's tale - false or not - had instilled in him.

"This ship stops in Anvil. M'Emil is lucky. Cyrodiil will be the first province M'Emil will see. Travelers always remember their first province fondly."

"I sure hope so..." Emil whispered. He thought on the new hardships he would have to face, assimilating into the culture. From what he'd heard, the country had recently been in turmoil. Something called the Oblivion Crisis had just been resolved, and many of the provinces and counties therein were still recovering from the damage done. They likely wouldn't be too accepting of strangers, and national relations were only stable between Aselia and Tamriel because of the trade routes established between the Empire and Tethe'allan Kingdom. The only time Tamrielans were seen in Aselia was at port cities, conducting trade, and they hardly stayed longer than a week at a time. The same was true of Tethe'allans and Sylvaranti in Tamriel. Heck, up until recently, Tethe'alla and Sylvarant weren't even on good terms with each other. Emil's prior excitement at the prospect of a new life was quickly fading, suddenly aware that it would likely be the same as his assimilation into life in Luin. No one would like him, he'd be pushed around and bullied, and it would largely be the same life as before. 

Emil had been falling in and out of phases of complete ecstasy and elation at the fantasy of a pleasant, happy, free future that awaited him across the seas - a place of unlimited opportunities and endless possibilities; to a discouraged and dejected sense of doom, and a life of hardship and toil that would be foisted on him upon his arrival in a land so alien and different, that he would be more of an outsider than ever before. Conflicting emotions had been stirring in him, even as he boarded the carriage to the port at Luin. But deep down, Emil - like all people - hoped for happiness, yearned for fulfillment with every cell in his body, and only that kept pushing those bad thoughts to the back of his mind, repeating to himself the same mantra that assured him "change will be good, opportunities, freedom, and happiness await you; you just need to get there..."

The emotional turmoil of the day had exhausted him, and by now, drowsiness had begun to take hold. Emil pulled the blanket up over his face; it was old and smelled of the sea, but it was comforting. It smelled like _home..._ Palmacosta... If he could find a single comfort that quelled both the excitement and depression and brought him some measure of peace, it was the comfort in knowing that the same sea connected his old home to his new home. "G'night, Ma'Ikau..." Emil mumbled, closing his eyes, letting the swaying of the hammock in response to the rolling waves soothe him.

"It is not night." Ma'Ikau snickered. "We say 'good sleep' to avoid that mistake." Emil just hummed, too tired to really pay attention. "Until moon-rise, then, M'Emil..." the Khajiit whispered with a smile."So much to learn, and only a month to teach it..."

As both boys drifted to sleep, the ship pulled up anchor and set off toward Tamriel, and Emil's future.


	3. Blood-stained Memories, Bittersweet Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lord Abend, noble lord of Rosethorn Hall, is in dire need of cheering up.

"Sir, your tea." A middle-aged man with an oval face and a long, pointed nose offered up a silver tray filled with various sweets arranged around an elegant antique teapot with matching cup and saucer, all painted with a fanciful design of roses and lilies. He was balding, but still maintained a decent amount of his dark brown hair. He dressed in a refined black suit, tailored to his unusually tall, slim figure. Vertical pinstriped pants emphasized this appearance, and polished black shoes completed his modest look. The bright red of his elegant shirt and a golden necklace were the only two things that offset the otherwise somber attire. He couldn't have looked more like a butler if he tried. His mannerisms were the only clear signal of his Breton lineage.

"I don't want any..." A figure sulked in the shadowy corner of the library, taking a sidelong glance at the older man before returning his eyes to his book. It was difficult to make out many of his features in the swath of darkness, but one could make out a slim but broad-shouldered figure, clad in a lavender shade of purple, offset by a bright yellow embroidery of crystalline shapes, fantastical flora, and fierce fauna from a land rarely seen. The only detail of his face that could be made out was the reflective surface of his triangular spectacles. There was just something about this figure that looked... sick...

"Sir, please. You must eat something. I know how you feel this time of year, but if your fasts get any longer, you'll starve yourself to death."

"Maybe it would be better if I did..."

"Now, you don't mean that, sir. Come, I picked up a fresh batch of sweet-rolls at Salmo's for you. I know how you love them." The older man set the tray onto the end table beside the younger male in his shadowy corner, sliding the small stack of books that had been there off to the side with deft accuracy, as though this was a common action that required little more thought than a reflex. "I bought your favorite blend of tea as well, sir. Apple spice." The Breton turned the cup over on the saucer, and poured a cup of tea with a sort of finesse that indicated he had done this over many years. He added a single cube of sugar and a dash of cream, stirring it with a sort of care and devotion that seemed such a stark contrast to the lack of effort it required. The younger male showed no interest in his servant's toils, preferring the black of the text against the yellowed pages of his book to the somber, pitying look on his manservant's face. "There you are, sir. One sugar and just the right amount of cream, exactly the way you like it." He gestured to the nobleman with the cup, but the young man showed no signs of accepting it. "Go on, before it gets cold."

"I don't want any, Haskill. You may leave me, now. And take that tray with you."

"My apologies, sir, but I'm afraid I'll not be doing that." The older male set the cup back on the tray, freeing his hands up to place upon his young master's shoulders. "Please, sir. I'll not see you kill yourself over this wretched self-loathing. I understand how you must feel about that tragedy, but starving yourself doesn't help a thing. You remember why we moved out here to the country, don't you? For your research? Are you really willing to put those two painful years to waste and end it all now?"

"I suppose not..." The younger mumbled, and closed his book.

"Then, please... eat, sir." Haskill picked up a sweet-roll and held it out toward his master, who took it disinterestedly. The young man took a bite, chewing half-heartedly before raising his eyebrows at his butler as though to ask if he was satisfied with this compliance. "Very good, sir. Now, _swallow._ " He spoke with a gentle sort of authority, and despite the hateful glance he received in return, he was quite satisfied to see the younger comply. "And some tea?" The younger rolled his eyes but obliged, taking a dainty sip from the cup and setting it back with a sort of 'so-there' attitude. "Thank you, sir. You put this old man's heart to rest." The man bowed to his master and began to exit the library. "It might do you a bit of good to get some sun once in a while, sir. Your pallor does not suit you. The other's have begun to think you're ill."

"Yes... perhaps you're on to something." The younger man walked into the sunlight, his pale skin a brilliant contrast to his red hair. Green eyes reflected bright flecks of afternoon sun as he opened the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony. His ears peeked through the red strands of hair, professing a Bosmeric ancestry, but he had the strong jaw and the broad shoulders of an Imperial. His features were so mixed that it was difficult to tell if he was more one than the other. Ignoring the ears, he could easily pass as either race. He was handsome, despite his sickliness, and one could only imagine an even more handsome man could be made of him by adding a healthy amount of weight. He leaned against the railing, looking decidedly aloof as he stared absently out into the expanse of lightly flowered grass between the manor wall and garden gates in the distance.

Haskill gave a nod and a solemn smile as he took his leave. He was just about to shut the door when he heard retching of the most dreadful sort. "Sir!" He barged back in, scowl on his face, radiating all the disapproval he could muster. He pulled the redhead away from the railing and wiped the bile from his lips and the drool from his fingers with a handkerchief from his breast pocket.

"Heh... you told me to eat. You never said it had to stay in there." The half-elf gave a weak laugh. "You just don't understand, do you, Haskill? I can't die. The gods won't let me. It's my punishment... for that day two years ago. Don't you see? They kept me alive to torture me! If they were merciful, they would have let me die in the Oblivion Crisis!" The redhead tried to yank himself away from his servant's grasp, writhing in a fit of agony and despair, throwing what almost seemed to be a temper tantrum; something so out of character for the usually refined noble.

"Calm down, sir!" Haskill growled as he did his best to hold his master still; the youth had a tremendous amount of strength for a man well on his way to starvation. He was already so emaciated that his ribs were beginning to show, even through his shirt.

"No! I will not! Don't you get it?! Nothing matters anymore! Just let me die!"

"Sir, doing that would be a disgrace to you and your parents before you. Perhaps you are the one who does not understand. I have served your family for all these years, watched you grow, watched you live. If anything were to happen to you, I could never forgive myself. My life is but to serve the Abend family. Without you, sir, this estate... my _life_... is wasted. I know you are in pain, my lord, but you cannot do this to yourself. You are not the only one who suffers because of it! What would your parents think of you if they saw you now?!"

"Don't you _dare_ speak of Mother and Father in my presence!" The noblemer roared, biting into the older man's hand in an attempt to force it to release his wrist. "They would think me a coward! I deserve death! By the Nine Divines, I should be cast into Oblivion and torn limb from limb by the werebears on Hircine's Hunting Grounds!"

"Hmph, I should rather think they'd find you utterly childish, and in need of a good spanking. Death solves nothing, milord. You must _live_. If you can muster the courage to see another day, then one of them may be your last day of torture. Happiness, my lord, is never out of reach! Your parents would have wanted you to live! To be happy! You are right to think the Nine Divines forbid your death... They will guide you to Aetherius when it is your time. But for now, you must live! I'll be damned if I let you do otherwise... These suicidal episodes must stop! My lord, one of these days I may need to have the Count 'turn you'... "

"You think I'm scared of Hassildor? Bah! I'm surprised that old vampire's teeth haven't fallen out yet!"

"Indeed, sir, indeed." Haskill finally managed to wrestle his young master back into his chair, where he was promptly strapped down by the wrists. "But he has much to teach you in the way of enduring eternal pain. As does the countess... And at least the man eats, for Aetherius' sake."

"Drinking innocent people's blood isn't exactly my definition of 'eating', Haskill."

"Sustenance is sustenance, my lord. And you are in dire need of some. Damned if I care if it's sweet-rolls or blood you desire, so long as you eat _something_."

"My, apologies, Master Richter. But Haskill is right. You must eat." A young woman with cat ears and a startlingly human face cooed as she fastened her young lord's ankles as well. She was tattooed with blue ink, designs enhancing the feline look were done across her face. She might have been able to pass as a Bosmer without it, though the ears were particularly high-set. But with her tattoos, she looked like a Khajiit, and Khajiit she was, despite her lack of fur.

"Aqua... I should have known you'd be helping old 'Buzzkill' here..."

"So amusing, sir..." Haskill feigned laughter, having heard the name used far too often to be offended by it anymore. "I was afraid it was going to come to this, sir, but I knew we had to prepare for the worst. I've had Aqua standing by in case I failed to convince you to eat. I must say, I never expected you to try a trick like that, but I had expected you to be unreasonable... She's been just as worried about you as I have. It's been three weeks, now, sir, and you were dangerously skinny to begin with. Every year it gets worse. I must say, I applaud your willpower; most people on the brink of death would have broken their resolve by now and gone on a rampant binge. However, no matter how admirable your convictions are, there is a point where ignoring instincts becomes insanity. We've agreed that it's in your best interest to survive, and if we have to disobey you and intervene on your behalf, so be it. Today, you _will_ be eating, milord. Whether you want to or not." Aqua handed Haskill a deep ceramic bowl with a matching lid, glazed white and patterned with blue landscapes of deer frolicking in the woods and a pair of fish leaping upstream. "Now, I'll give you a choice... You may have your sweet-rolls and tea, or, if you refuse, we'll be force-feeding you clam chowder. I've had the chef make it 'choke-proof', but I can't imagine it would be the most pleasant thing to have forced down your throat. Potatoes and all that... What will it be, sir?"

"What do you think?" The redhead spat.

"Clam chowder it is, sir." Haskill uncovered the porcelain bowl and pulled up a nearby chair, seating himself before his irritated master. "Now, we can be civil about this, sir. Or we can do this the hard way..." He stirred the contents of the bowl around, letting the steam rise off it in gentle plumes, allowing the creamy soup to cool and (hopefully) enticing his master to comply by allowing the rich aroma to waft to his nose. "I'll give you one more chance. If you promise to eat, we will untie you. I'll monitor you this time, of course, but I daresay that's a right bit better than what we'll do to you if you continue this defiance..." Haskill lifted the spoon to his own lips and tested the temperature. "Mmm, the chef has outdone himself this time." He lifted the spoon to his master's lips. The redhead, stubborn as he was, refused the offer, turning away from the tempting morsel.

Now, a normal person might have attributed this refusal to the fact that another's mouth had recently been in contact with said spoon. This, however, was not the issue. Haskill had been the lord's personal butler and chamberlain since he was a lad, even his nursemaid when the occasion called for it. They practically lived and slept in the same room, and the young lord was so used to contact and close proximity with Haskill that nothing bothered him in the slightest, much less the man's health or oral hygiene (both of which were impeccable, by the way). Haskill, of course, understood the younger's refusal as the pure expression of self-loathing and depression that it was.

"Come now, sir. It's _really _good..." Haskill pressed the spoon up to his master's lips, getting the powerful aroma even closer to his nostrils, which (though the redhead refused to admit it to himself) was working. However, most of Haskill's patience had been used up prior to this, having to deal with the younger's earlier tantrum and deceptive purging. "This is your last chance, sir. I mean it." The younger male's lips remained glued shut, and Haskill resorted to Plan B. "Fine. Aqua, do it."__

In seconds, Aqua had wrenched the young half-elf's jaw open. Haskill thrust the spoon inside and Aqua forcefully shut the redhead's mouth around it. The noble struggled, trying to pull away and spit out the mouthful, but his struggles merely made it easier for Haskill to remove the spoon and prepare a second mouthful. "Swallow, sir." The half-Bosmer stared daggers into his butler's deadpan gaze, refusing to make usurping his will a simple task. Haskill nodded to Aqua, who shifted one hand to cover the young male's mouth and the other to hold his nose. He held his breath for as long as he could, but eventually, he couldn't suppress the instinct to breathe any longer. He clenched his eyes shut and swallowed the mouthful, feeling the warm substance ease down his throat, gushing into the depths of his deprived stomach. Aqua released him and he gasped for breath, muttering vague curses at the two as he struggled to break free of his restraints.

Haskill rolled his eyes, and gestured to Aqua again. She grabbed her master by the jaw once more, and the whole process repeated. Haskill spooned in mouthful after mouthful of the creamy soup. With each spoonful, Aqua clamped the stubborn lord's mouth shut, covering his nose and mouth, forcing him to swallow if he wanted his next breath. And, breathing being one of the more instinctual practices, the young manmer could do nothing but comply. Between every gasp, another spoonful was forced in, until eventually, the redhead could fight it no longer and just gave in. Really, the soup _was_ delicious, he couldn't deny that. But that wasn't the point... Still, fighting every spoonful had grown tiresome, and by now his stomach had over-ruled his brain. By the time he had been force-fed about half the bowl, the young man had submitted entirely, and was chewing and swallowing without Aqua's enforcement. Every so often, he'd mutter "tea" or "roll" and Aqua would lift the cup or sweet-roll to his lips, giving him the few bites or sips requested before he returned to Haskill's soup. At last, Haskill set aside the empty bowl on the tray, now void of tea-things, and sighed with relief. "That's much better, isn't it, sir?" The redhead gave an unceremonious nod. "Take the tray, Aqua. I'll stay here to make sure he doesn't try to 'relieve himself' of his meal..." The girl nodded and did as she was told.

The next few minutes were relatively silent, the redhead staring absently out the window as Haskill kept his vigilant eyes on his young lord. After a while, Haskill abortively offered other distractions from his lord's staring contest with the tree outside the window. "Would you care for me to read to you, sir? You seemed quite invested in that book from earlier." His lord did not respond. "I would like to untie you, but I'm afraid I cannot trust you. Hardly think the garden needs you fertilizing it with half-digested soup, you know..." The younger remained conspicuously silent. "Will you not talk to me, my lord? I do apologize for what we had to do, but you must understand, it is our duty to ensure your happiness. And we can only do that while you are alive, sir."

"I'm not angry with you, Haskill..." The redhead murmured, still refusing to make eye-contact.

"Then will you not let me know what you wish to do, sir? I hardly think staring out the window at nothing is the best use of your time. Surely there is some activity you can do here that I might allow."

"I'd just like to think for a while..."

"As you wish, sir." The air was thick with silence, afterward. Dead silence. Haskill stood dutifully at his lord's side, rigid and proper, as statuesque as the young lord, as though out of sympathy. A good half-hour or so passed before the silence was finally broken by a gloomy, depressed sigh.

"Why do they hate me, Haskill?" Richter whispered forlornly.

"Who, sir?"

"The Gods... why do they hate me?"

"They don't hate you, sir. The Nine hate no one."

"Then why won't they leave me alone? Why must I endure this maddening torture?"

"Perhaps... it is their way of testing you. I'm sure the Champion felt abandoned many a time, too. You know he started off in the Imperial Prison?"

"Did he, now? Heh..." The young lord scoffed. "Haskill..."

"Yes, sir?"

"I want to be alone..."

"I cannot --"

"Just out of earshot, Haskill... please..." The young lord wore a prepared, stern looking expression; but his eyes, those deep green pools of the soul, were reflecting a desperate sort of sadness that practically begged his compliance.

"Very well, sir." The older male backed up to another corner of the library, just far enough that he could still keep an eye on his master and make sure he wasn't doing anything suspicious or concern-worthy.

The half-mer lowered his gaze, staring first at his shoes, then his lap... Tears began streaming from his face, leaving salty tracks on his cheeks for the next tears to follow in. "Aster...", he whispered. "I'm sorry..." He repeated the name and apology over and over, losing more of his composure with each repetition until he was crying aloud, and Haskill had no trouble discerning the words, even before they became audible. This had happened for two years, now. This would begin the third. This was one of the bitterest anniversaries anyone at Rosethorn Hall knew of. Aster died today. And every year after, a bit more of their lord seemed to die with the boy's memory. A year of grief was bad enough. But three? Haskill wouldn't stand for one year more of this. So he had hired a boy. A distraction of sorts. Someone from the new world, with new stories and new technologies, new things to teach the master. That had always cheered him up. He liked to learn.

"It's alright, sir. It's alright." Haskill unbound his lord and let the young male collapse into his arms. "I know. You must be exhausted. Let's get you to bed." He half-carried, half-dragged his disheveled master up the stairs to his sleeping quarters. He laid him out on the plush mattress, undressed him, and re-garbed him in his night clothes, though it was hardly afternoon. He pulled the covers up over the young man's chest, and fluffed the down pillows. "I know you don't want to forgive yourself. But he would want you to, you know." The redhead made no indication he was listening to Haskill. "I have good news, though. I've hired a boy from the new world... You remember, don't you? Aselia, in the far west? If the weather stays fair, he should be here within a month. That's something to look forward to, isn't it? I bet he'll have all sorts of stories to tell. And you could show him around Cyrodiil. I'm sure he'd love to see the wonders of our country. You can employ him in whatever position you deem appropriate. Who knows, maybe his knowledge and technologies might be exactly what you need to complete your research?"

"...Yeah..."

"Oh, and the Argonian tutor I hired has arrived. Showed up just yesterday. She's got lessons planned for you tomorrow afternoon. Her Black Marsh name is too difficult to pronounce... so...", the butler laughed suggestively, "we've decided to nickname her 'Lifts-Her-Tail'."

"...Seriously?" The redhead snorted, a small smile flitting across his face for a moment. 

"Yes. We thought you'd get a laugh out of it."

"Humorous, indeed..." the redhead muttered wearily, letting something like a weak laugh pass his lips. "Speaking of... another scene?"

"Of course, sir." The butler pulled a well-thumbed copy of 'The Lusty Argonian Maid' from the bedside table and began to recite it.

"ACT IX, SCENE V  
(Colto's Manor, Hallway, Enter Lift's-Her-Tail from Right-stage. She begins dusting a suit of armor. Enter Colto, Left-stage. He watches her with hunger in his eyes.)  
Lifts-Her-Tail: Oh! Sir, you gave me quite a start! I was sure it was the mistress come to scold me again!  
Crantius Colto: No need to fear, my sweet. The mistress has gone out this evening.  
Lifts-Her-Tail: Well, that's a relief, sir. I can finish my cleaning in peace, now. There's still so much tidying up to be done. I still have not finished putting your weapons back in the armory. It took so long to polish them all.  
Crantius Colto: Indeed. You are such a thorough maid, my dumpling. But I fear you have forgotten to polish one.  
Lifts-Her-Tail: Oh dear! Have I?! Whichever did I miss, my lord?!  
Crantius Colto: Why, my most prized sword, of course.  
Lifts-Her-Tail: Oh, but I couldn't, sir! What would the mistress think if she caught me with your sword?! She has nearly caught me twice already!  
Crantius Colto: Perhaps you are right, my little flower. You've polished my sword often enough, I think. Perhaps it is time for me to put it in your sheath?  
Lifts-Her-Tail: Heavens, no, sir! The mistress would have my head! You are meant to keep your sword in _her_ sheath!  
Crantius Colto: But she is gone, now. Besides, my lovely Argonian, I think your sheath would be a much better fit for my sword...  
Lifts-Her-Tail: Impossible, sir! My sheath is _much_ too small for such a _big_ sword! It would never fit!  
Crantius Colto: You don't know that for certain, my dear. I could simply try it out. It could just slide in nice and easy.  
Lifts-Her-Tail: You don't know my sheath like _I_ do, sir. It's much too small. There hasn't been a sword in it in ages, much less one as hefty as yours. You'd have a hard time forcing it in. You'd probably hurt yourself trying!  
Crantius Colto: I'm sure with a little time and effort, we could make it fit. Sheaths can be tempered, you know.  
Lifts-Her-Tail: That sounds like an awful lot of work; it could take all night!  
Crantius Colto: Plenty of time, my sweet. Plenty of time.  
END OF ACT IX, SCENE V."

The redhead barely mustered a chuckle at some of the most bawdy and suggestive parts, but it was a laugh nonetheless. By the end of the scene, a small-but-permanent smile was set on the young man's face. Haskill tucked the book back in its place and drew the curtains. "Good night, sir."

"Good night, Haskill." The older man quietly opened an inconspicuous door beside the armoire and crept into his own sleeping quarters, shutting the door just as silently as he had opened it. He tidied a few things and set about doing the paperwork and bills when he heard the subtle creaking of the bedsprings and a quiet moaning and whimpering. He half-smiled, returning to his work. He had heard the sounds often enough to know what was happening. It had become something of a self-soothing activity for the young master, ever since puberty. Those alternating mewls and gasps were almost predictable, now. Haskill didn't blame the boy; he had hormones like any other young man, noble blood did not change his needs. Haskill had hoped for his young master to find a mate by now, but knowing his... well, _unique_ tastes, that had become an unlikely prospect. But Haskill couldn't help feeling that if the young redhead could share his life with someone, he would get over this depression. He needed an intimate other, now more than ever. Really, any sort of companionship would do. Haskill just prayed that the young man would open up to someone soon, and let go of this pain he'd been nursing for too long. Something like a squeak followed by a sigh concluded the rhythmic groaning of abused bedsprings, and all was silent after. Haskill checked on his young master an hour later, and found him sprawled across the bed, in a nearly comatose state of sleep. The smell of sweat and... other secretions... was still quite strong. Still, it made Haskill happy... It brought the boy peace, and what Haskill could only imagine was the only sort of "happiness" available to the young man during this mourning period. He didn't mind having to clean the sheets as long as the master was satisfied.

He brushed the red hair out of his master's face and laid his head back on the pillows. He poured a glass of water for the young man and left it on the bedside table. "Sleep well, Lord Richter. May the Nine bless you with pleasant dreams tonight." He spent the next couple of hours tidying the room, re-shelving the books the young master had strewn across the floor, probably looking for the one he had taken to the library. He shook his head, knowing he'd have to retrieve said book. The master liked things kept in order, though he was decidedly counterproductive in that effort. Replacing all the books on their shelves revealed that a few were actually missing, and Haskill sighed, quietly exiting his lord's chambers and stalking down the stairs to track down the missing codices. He strode into the library and began digging through the pile beside his lord's chair, sorting out which ones belonged in the library and which belonged on the lord's personal shelves. He already knew which ones he was looking for: The Exodus by Waughin Jarth, Palla by Vojne Mierstyyd (both volumes), N'Gasta! Kvata! Kvakis! by the infamous N'Gasta, The Tome of Unlife and all three volumes of Corpse Preparation. The master kept a number of books on necromancy, which, though not illegal in Cyrodiil, was frowned upon by almost everyone. It was a misunderstood practice, and rightly so. Many of the most notable necromancers were the 'evil' sort, raising armies of the dead to do their bidding, for some unholy purpose or another. Lord Abend's intentions were nothing nearly as sinister, though equally lamentable. His story was actually rather like that of the narrator of Palla. He had been trying for two years now without success to resurrect Aster. He had made some strides, to be sure, and a few experiments were actually highly successful but came with... _undesirable_ side effects. Haskill wished the younger would just give it up already; no necromancer in history had ever done what his master attempted to do, nor came remotely close, and the effort seemed to be taxing the young lord's sanity with every failed or partly successful attempt. But he wanted the young man to succeed, too. He wanted to see the boy happy again, like in his childhood. This 'research' of his was really the only thing that kept the redhead going, lately... kept hope alive in his heart.

Haskill gathered the heavy, unwieldy stack of books, wondering how his emaciated master managed to carry them all the way to the library in his weakened state. Probably threw them down the stairs and flung them a few at a time down the hall until he got them to the library. Or maybe he bundled them in one of his sheets and dragged them there. Either way, they were difficult to haul back up the stairs (Haskill lost his balance halfway up and dropped the top two books, which he had to go back for once he miraculously got the other books to the top of the stairs without further incident.) He managed to lug them the rest of the way to the master's room without dropping any, and squeezed through the door without causing much of a ruckus. He carefully placed them back in their appropriate places, though the young master was sure to make a mess of the shelves searching for them again. He had just finished placing the last one when he heard a distressed moan from behind him.

"P-please... no... No!" The redhead was trembling , fingers digging into the sheets as if he felt himself falling. "A-Aster! Leave him alone! No!" The young noble balled up as though he had been stabbed in the gut, twisting and writhing in agony, crying out "Aster!" again and again. 

"Sir. Sir! Wake up, sir!" Haskill shook the younger male by the shoulder. The half-elf awoke with a start, practically jumping off the bed and landing with a loud thud on the floor.

"Owww..." the noble moaned, rubbing his bruised tailbone gingerly. He shivered and rubbed his arms vigorously. "I feel... c-c-cold... and everything h-hurts..." 

"You were having a nightmare, sir. Nasty one at that. Didn't think they could get worse than last year, but I guess I was wrong..." Haskill held out a hand to the young noblemer and hoisted him off the floor.

Richter clung to his butler, still tremulous. "Vaermina's a bitch...*" he shuddered.

"Indeed, sir." Haskill replied, stroking his master's hair comfortingly. "Would you like... to talk about it, sir?" Haskill half-expected to be turned down; the master rarely discussed his feelings, much less on this particular subject. Richter was the type to withdraw when he felt vulnerable. To his surprise, the younger male agreed.

"Y-yeah..." Haskill guided the redhead over to a plush armchair by the fireplace. It was cozy there, though there was no fire lit.

"Something to drink, milord?" The older man offered up the glass of water he had poured earlier.

"Stronger..." Richter mumbled.

The older male nodded and retreated to his own quarters. He pulled a chest out from beneath his bed and unlocked it, pulling out a deep red glass bottle with a crisp white label. "Slowly, sir. Remember how alcohol affects you when you've been fasting..." The redhead nodded and he handed the young male the bottle.

He took a sip of the mead and made a face. "Yech... Tastes worse after a fast, too..." He took another sip and shivered. "I'm still cold, Haskill..."

"A manifestation of your anxiety, I would suppose. Your joints still ache, too, correct?"

"Yeah." Richter hugged his legs up to his chest, still pale and covered in sweat.

"Vaermina's followers describe the same phenomena. 'The Grasp of Vaermina' they call it, I think."

"That doesn't make me any less cold or sore, Haskill." The younger complained.

"My apologies, sir." Haskill collected the comforter from his master's bed and draped it over the young man's shoulders. "Better, sir?" The redhead nodded with an approving grunt, taking a heavy swallow of his mead. " _Slowly_ , sir. _Water_ is for thirst, _liquor_ is for comfort..." The older scolded.

"Liquor is for what _I_ decide." The redhead snorted. "Whose house is this?"

" _Yours_ , sir..." Haskill rolled his eyes.

"Damn straight. Don't you forget it." The redhead stared into the empty hearth and took another drink. The awkward silence that had been invading their conversations reappeared, stagnating the air. Nothing, save the sound of the younger downing his liquor, interrupted it. Eventually, the young noblemer finished his mead, and he handed the bottle to his butler to be disposed of.

"Better, sir?"

"Better..."

"I am listening, if there is something you'd like to say." Haskill prompted. He knew it would sound too nosy if he asked directly, or too pushy if he reminded the young noble that he _had_ agreed to talk about it.

"Good to know..." The silence dragged on a while after, and Haskill kept himself busy by tidying various corners of the room. He knew that would put the younger more at ease if he felt like he didn't have to talk, but had someone nearby listening if he _did_ want to. He made the bed again, ignoring the conspicuous wet spot near the center of the sheets, dusted some of the untouched artifacts on the higher shelves that had been neglected for a few weeks, and lit a few candles in the room as the sun began to set outside.

"It _was_ worse, this time..." The redhead began, causing his manservant to pause in the middle of sorting some papers on the desk nearby. "It always starts off the same... deceptively peaceful, more like a dream." Haskill set down the papers and stood attentively beside his young master, listening to every detail with genuine interest. "This time, though, I wasn't part of the Skingrad defense... It was just me and _him_ this time. Alone, together. Just talking... just talking..." the young man trailed off, a bit of nostalgia in his voice. He did not look at Haskill while he spoke, but took great comfort in his presence and companionship as he recounted his traumatic nightmare. "It seemed innocent at first. We were sitting in the grass... overlooking the vineyards. We were sharing a bunch of grapes we nabbed on the way past the Surilie Brothers'... He complained they were sour." The redhead gave a sad laugh. "They were just perfect for me. We were just laying in the lush grass, not a care in the world. Everything was so calm. Then, the most peculiar thing happened... A stag beetle... crawled on my hand. So I lifted it, coaxed it to fly off. Then another came... and another, and another... Hundreds of them, crawling over us both, around us. He reached for me, grabbed me, and pointed behind us. They were all swarming, gathering in that... _ghastly_ shape... burning like a funeral pyre. _Thousands_ of them, now... And they parted, revealing one of those _gates_... that hideous burning rift into Oblivion. The sky was consumed by ash and blood red smoke. I could _taste_ the death in the air, Haskill, like cinders upon my tongue. But it was cold, so very cold. I tried to tell him to get behind me, but I choked on the air. It reeked of sulfur and brimstone. I reached for him instead, still gasping for air that didn't seem to exist. His hand was hot and wet. I turned to look; there was blood on his hands, ungodly amounts of it, and he stared at it, horrified. 'Get it off me!' He screamed as more dripped down upon him, and I couldn't understand why this was happening. So I looked up. We were in one of those blasted Daedric keeps; corpses hung by their feet overhead, oozing fresh blood though they reeked from ages of rotting in the humid air. And he was _screaming_..." The redhead trembled and clutched the blankets about himself.

"I reached out to him, tried to comfort him, but my hands were bloody, too... He just kept backing away, farther and farther, until he was against the wall, screaming, crying. 'Where are we?! What's happening?! I wanna go home!' He clawed at the wall, leaving streaks of blood where he dragged his fingers on the corroded, rusted surface of those wretched pitch black walls. There were no doors; the portal from whence we came had vanished, and the eerie red-smog sky loomed over the towering walls of our prison like a suffocating tarp. There was no way to climb out, and the only thing below us was a sea of lava and the grating upon which we stood. It was about then that the wretched heat gripped me, irritating and utterly parching my already dry throat. I staggered over to him, grabbed him, despite his terror at my bloodied fingers, and cast a layer of frost around us. I shielded some ice crystals that formed between us from the ruby red rain that fell from the corpses high above us, taking as much refreshment as I could from them before they melted. Despite the magic origins, the water yielded was stale and bitter. But it was enough... It quenched my thirst enough to tell him that we'd be alright, that I'd get us out alive..."

The noblemer picked up the glass of water Haskill had left for him, quenching a real-life thirst as he continued. "I looked up, struggling to see some way to escape. I sought even the smallest sign that there was hope for us, a crack in the wall, a corpse hanging low enough to reach... I looked to the wall Aster had been pawing... there was so much blood... There were bodies pinned to the walls, too. The very sight turned my stomach; their skin was dark and moist, singed at the extremities to a coal black crust. Yellowed teeth were bared from lack of lips on their deteriorated faces, and maggots squirmed and tumbled like a writhing custard of putrescence from their deep, eyeless sockets. Their parent flies swarmed hungrily about, landing upon us to take a sup of the congealing pools of crimson succor dripping on our warm bodies from the rotting flesh above. Organs were spilling out from gaping holes in their bellies, skin and muscle eaten away or melted off, Gods know what happened, but the flesh that should have held the vital pieces in those bodies was all but gone. Aster had vomited already, and the pleasant wine-like odor that should have followed with the grapes was a rancid ammonia smell... I held him anyway. He needed it... _I_ needed it. I swear, it was like I was there, Haskill... It felt like I was there again. I don't know how long I was holding him before he was writhing away from me, wailing. 'Make it stop!' he would cry, 'It hurts! It _hurts_!' And before I could even think to myself ' _What_ hurts?' the most excruciating pain lanced through every muscle in my body, crippling me. My body was not my own, only the pain. I collapsed, completely unable to control my own limbs, and I helplessly watched what little I could see from the sanguine smeared grating. His wails grew more and more desperate, and I struggled to right myself, but I was nearly paralyzed, barely able to lift my head the few shaky inches needed to clearly see the macabre scene before me. Fetid corpses rotting on the walls reanimated, grabbing any bit of him they could, clawing and biting, their flesh peeling off and sticking to his bloodied arms and face. 'Richter! Help! They're hurting me! Ahhhh! Make them stop, make them _stop_!' But I... I c-couldn't..." The redhead broke down in tears. "I tried e-everything I could to help h-him, b-but I couldn't... s-s-stand up... " the noble stared at the palms of his hands, as though seeing them for the first time. "Magic failed me... I couldn't s-so much as l-lift a f-finger... and then... _it_ came... that demon Dremora, hideous and foul... and it... it..."

"Killed him..." Haskill finished for the now catatonic lord.

The redhead nodded. "All I could do was yell..."

"Yes. I heard."

"Did you?" The younger asked with an abnormal disinterest in the words, as though he was discussing something else entirely - he spoke in a way one usually makes idle chit-chat, or discusses events in the third person.

"Indeed. You called out in your sleep. 'Leave him alone', I believe, was one of the louder outbursts. Can't imagine what dreadful action would have warranted the desperate tone you used... It must have been a terrible vision indeed."

The noblemer appeared unusually distant and composed as he described the gruesome image that he beheld in his nightmare. Maybe because he knew it wasn't real, that it never happened, or because bearing witness in the dream had been traumatic enough that recounting it dulled in comparison to the actual experience. More than likely, it was just because he was in shock, reliving a tragic day in a dramatic, twisted, and infinitely more gruesome pseudo-reality. But the deathly serious monotone with which he spoke sent chills through the room itself... "It ripped out his still-beating heart and crushed it like a fermented apple. Thick, dark blood ran lazily, slow and viscous from the pulp that remained. Aster was silent, pale and cold in the arms of those death-headed bodies, _literally_ in the embrace of death itself, Haskill, with the petrified expression of a frightened child frozen to his stiffening features. The corpses released him, and he fell limp to the floor, but... not dead... dying... With all the strength I could summon, I crawled over to his colorless figure, trying with every ounce of my magicka to heal him, somehow, someway... And gods, he was so cold... as if he was eschewing ice from the Void itself. His breath was ragged, raspy, but it engulfed me... it was the only sign he was still living. It was quiet, but it was in my head, the wheezing, hissing death rattle of his... And with his final breath, he looked at me with the most... the most... _desperate_ , broken look. His lips were so chapped and pale... contrasting the blood now spilling from his mouth.... and he asked me... he asked 'Why didn't you save me?' and I just... I... just..." He said no more, raw emotion shattering through that erstwhile impassive facade, hot tears running the length of his cold, white face. If there was a way to verbally express the pain he was going through, he couldn't find it; he was only able to cry until his throat was parched and his eyes were red.

Haskill cradled the boy in a sort of paternal embrace, stroking the youth's lengthy red hair and whispering words of empty comfort. "It's alright, sir. Everything is alright... It was only a nightmare." He rocked the half-mer back and forth gently, until his young master had finally cried himself hoarse. The butler helped the lord to his feet and guided him back to the bed, tucking him in comfortably (despite the wet spot the younger male had made earlier). "Rest, sir. It will help..."

"Don't want to..." the younger whispered stubbornly.

Haskill knew why. More nightmares aren't exactly something to look forward to when it has had a history of recurring for 3 years. "I think I can help with that." He pulled out a pair of candles from a cabinet drawer, one red and one white, with two matching silver candleholders. He lit the red one first, allowing a few drips of wax to fall into the base of the holder before he set the candle inside, helping the candle remain upright. "Cinnamon scented... to keep the nightmares away..." He repeated the process with the white and set it on the bedside table with its red counterpart. "And vanilla, to welcome the good dreams." He smiled.

"That's an old-wives'-tale. Scented candles don't really work..."

"Oh, really? Have you ever had a nightmare when I've lit these for you?"

"... No... " The redhead mumbled, remembering the last time he had had this conversation, when he was thirteen and having recurring nightmares.

"And have you ever not had a pleasant dream?" The butler smiled smugly.

"... No..."

"Then _something_ must be working." The older male chuckled. "At the very least, the scents will be calming, and they should help you sleep." He pat his young master's hair affectionately and moved to leave when he felt a clammy hand wrap around his.

"Haskill," the young lord whispered, "I don't... want to be alone."

"As you wish, sir. I'll stay with you as long as you'd like." He pulled up a nearby chair and sat beside the bed. The canopy fluttered with a slight breeze as a calm summer wind mixed the candles' aromas in the room. And Haskill sat, watching the candles burn, waiting for his master to find peace. Many minutes passed, and the young male remained wide awake. Haskill sighed. There was _one_ thing that had never failed to put the young male to sleep... but he was ... a bit rusty.

Haskill cleared his throat, thinking over the first few words carefully, before the rest finally clicked. He began quietly, in a soft baritone. "So many years have passed/ The dew is still on the roses/ I left my childhood/ In a garden green..." The young lord looked shocked at first, then homesick. He began to tear up, but did not ask Haskill to stop, so the Breton continued, despite his young master's watery eyes. "Come in the garden and look at the trees/ I used to play there when I was a child/ Squirrels and birds, little fairies/ Settled down there long ago..." He noticed as the younger male began to mouth the words with trembling lips and sang a bit louder, almost inviting the boy to join the chorus. "So many years have passed/ The dew is still on the roses/ I left my childhood/ In a garden green..." By now, the boy had started singing along in a quiet tenor, sweet and sad, like a violin. Haskill himself felt a bit of nostalgia, hearing the young master sing like that. "Come in the garden and sit on the grass/ I used to sit there when I was a child/ Ivy and moss, little daisies/ Covered the lane long ago/ So many years have passed/ The dew is still on the roses/ I kept my memories/ In that garden green..." By the last couplet, Richter was singing with all the saddened passion he could muster. "I kept my memories/ In that garden green." He drew out the last note, as if he didn't want the song to end.

"You sing wonderfully, sir."

"You're not half bad yourself, Haskill." The faintest wisp of a smile graced the young man's features for a brief moment. His mother used to sing this to him, when she was still alive. It was different when Haskill sang it, but the older man's baritone was familiar in it's own way, and soothed him nevertheless.

"You're too kind, sir."

A pleasant silence followed, and the young noblemer was noticeably more relaxed. Haskill idly picked up a book from the shelf under the nightstand and began skimming it, as his master grew drowsier and drowsier. The sound of pages turning seemed to help it along as well, another familiar ambient sound from the lord's youth.

"Hey, Haskill?" The young man whispered.

"Yes, sir?"

"Thanks for putting up with me..."

The old butler simply smiled in response. "Not at all, sir. I've served far more high-maintenance lords, believe me."

"Perhaps. But I've had no finer butler."

"You flatter me, milord."

"Take it as you will. It's the truth for me." The redhead yawned, closing his weary, tear-reddened eyes at last. "Good night, Haskill."

"Good night, milord." Haskill kept his word, and remained dutifully by his master's side all through the night, keeping his silent vigil until well after dawn when he finally fell asleep at his chair.

Only 29 days until arrival...


	4. All About Sweet-rolls and Things of that Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emil's first night on the ship. He finds companionship with a small group of misfits and begins learning of the rich, recent history of Tamriel and Cyrodiil.

"Hey, M'Emil.  _M'Emil!_  Get up! If Ma'Ikau misses breakfast, Ma'Ikau will never forgive Nede!" Emil felt himself being shaken by the shoulder, a familiar voice calling something that sounded like his name. He couldn't quite place a name with the voice, and he had quite forgotten where, exactly, he was.

"Mmmmnn... Five more minutes..." Emil groaned, pulling the scratchy covers closer around his body.

"No more minutes! Nede must wake up! If Ma'Ikau misses sweet-rolls for this, Ma'Ikau will punch little, virgin Nede in his man-parts!" 

Emil felt himself bounced up and down and he tried to swat away whoever was jumping on him. However, the motion threw him off balance, and - quite forgetting he was in a hammock - Emil's attempts to right himself afterward compromised his balance even more, and he ended up tumbling out of bed - or, well,  _hammock_... - and went crashing to the hard wooden floor of the lower deck. 

"Owwowwowwoww!" Emil overlapped utterances laced with pain as he rubbed his bruised bits - particularly his right hip which had taken the brunt of the impact - staring up at the swaying fold of cloth that he had just fallen out of. Ma'Ikau, his unofficial alarm clock, was clinging to the wall, snickering as he slid down by his claws, leaving two pairs of overlapping tracks.

"Ma'Ikau probably should have warned Nede about that first step! Hahaha, Ma'Ikau has not seen something so funny since Jo'Kasha fell in the river trying to practice her water-walking spell!"

"Ma'Ikau, it isn't kind to make fun of others when they are in pain." A second Khajiit was standing by the shelves, folding a pair of breeches and a baggy white shirt. She was wearing the floral dress Emil had seen earlier, and Emil correctly inferred that this was Jo'Kasha, Ma'Ikau's sister.

"But he is so ridiculous!" Ma'Ikau laughed.

"That is beside the point. Jo'Kasha also remembers telling Ma'Ikau not to slide down the walls like that. It will leave marks, and the Captain will be upset."

"He cannot be upset if he never sees them. He never visits here. So he will never see them. Lucky thing Ma'Ikau has strong claws. Ridiculous Nedic Ja'Khajiit almost pulled Ma'Ikau down with him!"

"Next time, I'll remember to." Emil muttered crossly. "What's the big idea, anyway?"

"Do not be upset with Ma'Ikau. Little Nede threw  _himself_  out of his hammock, all on his own!" The Khajiit boy snickered, changing out of his sleepwear and into that tunic and loincloth Emil had seen earlier, without the slightest concern or embarrassment at being observed.

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't have if you hadn't been jostling me." Emil harrumphed dusting himself off and straightening his clothes (he had neglected to change before turning in for the night... er, day...)

"If Ma'Ikau hadn't, little Nede would still be sleeping!" Ma'Ikau fastened his belt and gestured for Emil to follow him. "Hurry, or there will be no more sweet-rolls!"

"Ah! W-wait up!" Emil started after Ma'Ikau, flustered and confused, shouting a rushed greeting-and-farewell to Jo'Kasha as he darted after her agile younger brother. "N-nice, uh, meeting you, Jo'Kasha!"

"This one hopes Ma'Ikau doesn't cause M'Emil too much trouble!" She giggled and waved him off with a smile. 

Emil did his best to follow Ma'Ikau as the boy darted down the narrow walkway between other sailors' rooms, trying to get used to the heave and pitch of the boat. There were shelves of goods on either side, and he bumped into several as he made his way down to the galley with the over-eager Khajiit. "Are sweet-rolls really  _that_  good that we'd have to run?!" 

"Only one way to find out, right, Nede?!" The young cat-boy slid down the banister and landed with a graceful, feather-light thump in the galley. Emil, still having trouble balancing with the boat tilting in the waves of the open sea, tripped on the third step and slid the rest of the way on his bottom (which was becoming quite sore after all the happenings that day) and made his decidedly un-graceful landing with a resounding "THUD!"

Ma'Ikau couldn't help but point and laugh, and a couple of the nearby sailors already seated with their rations nudged each other and pointed at the new, clumsy arrival, letting more subtle (though still audible) chuckles.

 _Great. Not even on the ship an entire day and you're already making a fool of yourself... So much for first impressions..._ A little voice in Emil's head muttered, making him feel even  _more_  timid and self-conscious in his strange, new, temporary home. He sulked at the foot of the stairs, wanting to liquefy and drip right through the cracks in the floorboards rather than be gawked and laughed at like some second-rate side-show.

"Hehe, little Nede walks like a sea-sick landlubber." Ma'Ikau held out his paw. "Do not feel too bad, though. Ma'Ikau took three months to just stop throwing up when he was first on a ship." He helped pull the blond more upright (though he was too short to really be much help pulling Emil into a standing position). "Nede will get better at it. It can be tricky, especially on choppy water like tonight. Still, Ma'Ikau recommends M'Emil wear some padding; he has fallen too much today already!" Emil simpered and nodded, dusting himself off and trying not to blush while he walked with Ma'Ikau as they passed between tables full of people that undoubtedly saw him fall.

At first, he had been a little offended when Ma'Ikau had laughed at him, first when he'd fallen out of bed, then when he'd fallen down the stairs, but.... Ma'Ikau helped him up. Emil wasn't used to being teased; actually, he wasn't used to getting attention at all, since he moved in with his relatives. But he recognized some of that loving glow of his father and friendliness of Marta's laughter when Ma'Ikau grinned at him at the foot of the stairs just moments ago. Teasing... was an affectionate thing, wasn't it? Then, did that mean Emil and Ma'Ikau were...  _friends_?

Emil smiled at the thought, and followed the Khajiit over to a table in the corner where two identical teenage girls with snow white hair, ash black skin, and blood red eyes sat gabbing across from a young boy - a little younger than Emil himself - with strawberry blonde hair, pointed ears, arched eyebrows and an aristocratic air about him; he was obviously not invested in the girls' conversation, and irately fiddled with an earring as Ma'Ikau walked up. Emil was awestruck - he had seen elven-kind before, but the people awaiting them at the rough, wooden table were unlike any elves he'd ever seen. The points of their ears were more vertical than horizontal, distinct from the elves and half-elves of his land, though he had extremely limited interaction with either of those races.

The blond was least alien looking, but his features were elongated in various proportions that distinguished him from the elves Emil knew. His eyes were narrow, though not exceptionally so, and they were shaped in a way that gave him a constant air of aloof pensiveness. His lips were a flushed, rosy color, pursed with an expression that vaguely resembled disdain beneath a long, narrow nose. His clothes were far more flamboyant than the other sailors', and if Emil wasn't certain this was a trading vessel, he would have guessed this young man to be an irritated sight-seer who found his vacation dull, and the cruise-service sub-par.

The two girls' appearances were much stranger to Emil, who was hardly familiar with the elves native to Aselia. Their skin was far darker than any natural tone he had seen in his life. There was a bluish tint to it, but it was more "sooty" than anything else. Charcoal might have been an apt name for the color, or even the people. Their hair was an aged white, though the girls had soft, taught skin that could only belong to people in their late teens. There was something about their eyes that Emil almost wanted to describe as "frightening". It was an unnatural hue, as far as Emil was concerned - he had seen many eye colors, even purple, once, but he had never seen eyes to match these ruby red irises. 

Emil suddenly felt intimidated by the idea of joining this strange company; true, Ma'Ikau was by far the strangest being he'd yet laid eyes upon, but at least he reminded Emil of something normal, natural... He was a cat  _and_  a human; Emil could wrap his head around that concept. He'd seen plenty of cats and humans in his life, and had imagined, on occasion, what it would be like if cats could talk and walk on two legs like people could. Ma'Ikau wasn't all that different from what he'd conceptualized. But Emil had only ever seen one elf, in passing, when he was very young; and he had only seen three half-elves (on separate occasions) at a distance. Furthermore, he had only ever seen the fair-skinned, nearly-human looking elven-blooded races from his own land. These new races, with their strange features and irregular coloration, were quite the "culture shock" to the inexperienced human.

Emil hesitantly hung back, feeling that usual nervousness creep up on him. He had never been much good at making friends. Most of the friends he had were people he had met through Marta, and he didn't really spend enough time around them to get to know them more intimately than a generic "first-name, hello-in-the-hallway" fashion. And any of the "real" friends he had, the intimate kind of which he had two - Marta and now Ma'Ikau - were relationships that were sort of "foisted" on him by the other person. Sure, he could smile and nod like any wall-flower, but the thought of trying to start up discussion with them was terrifying. And there would surely be plenty of conversation at that table, from what Emil could gather - the two dark-skinned maidens were chattering away at top speed, and judging by the many empty seats surrounding the table, Emil imagined that he ought to expect even  _more_  people would be seated at the table shortly.

That meant that a lot of unfamiliar faces would be pressing in from all sides, no doubt asking poignant questions about where he was from, going to, what he was going to do there, why, and Emil's stomach turned as he imagined the interrogation he would no doubt have to face when he joined the group... Unless they were like the people of Luin, in which case, he could expect to be ignored for the entirety of the voyage. He hated that idea more. It was an irreconcilable conflict he'd always had with himself: he hated being the center of attention, but he loathed being ignored. He was too shy to initiate any conversation. Though he knew it would gather the attention he craved, he was far to terrified to utter a syllable out of turn. "Speak when spoken to", that's what he lived by. "Speak only what is necessary" was an added measure. His Aunt and Uncle had destroyed whatever meager self-confidence he might have had, making it all the more difficult for Emil to really socialize. The problem fed the problem, perpetuated itself. The more he shied away from people, the less attention he was given; the more he was ignored, the more discouraged he became, and the less the wanted to talk or be with anyone.

But, that was the point of this venture, wasn't it? To Emil, at least. If he had to go all the way across the sea and brave a new land, he wanted to at least gain something from the experience. To open up again, maybe even more than when he was a boy. He wanted that. He wanted to be braver. But it was difficult to take that first step; it felt more like a plunge to Emil, standing on the edge of that precipice between introvert and extrovert. All he really needed was a little push to help him over the edge, and that push was to be Ma'Ikau - delightfully naive and innocent, oblivious to Emil's inner turmoil - who tugged Emil over to the strange elven-folk, calling to them by name as he approached with the shy blond in tow.

"Celedaen! Glistel! Mirili! Where are the others?" Ma'Ikau sat on a stool at one side of the table next to the noble-looking male elf and Emil shyly followed suit.

"Tobias and the Bretons went for food. Demetrius might be putting Cyrus to bed... and Cicero's probably still sleeping, the lazy oaf... Why do you care?" The blond elf shrugged.

"Because--" Ma'Ikau was about to answer, but was rudely interrupted by the two girls at the table.

"Ooh, the bigger question is: who's the cute boy you've got with you?" One of the dark-skinned girls giggled.

"Kyaaa! He's adorable!" The second one reached across the table and pinched Emil's beet-red cheeks. "Where did he come from?! I haven't seen him on this ship before. Is he a new recruit?"

"Oh, shut up, you two." The fair-skinned elf barked at them. "Do you have to flirt with  _every_  man, elf, or beast that catches your eye? Honestly... It's just creepy..."

Emil was already uncomfortable with the exorbitant amount of attention being paid to him, especially by the girls. The young Khajiit, however, was not one to be interrupted, and he quickly pulled attention back to him and his "announcement".

"Ma'Ikau was talking! No interruptings, please!" He leaped onto the table to exaggerate his frustration at being ignored. That got their attention, alright... "Better. Now, Ma'Ikau _was_  going to wait and tell all at once, but..." He glared from the boy to the two girls to ensure their silence before clearing his throat, rather dramatically, to introduce the new arrival. "This is M'Emil!" He gestured to Emil with outstretched arms. "He is going to Tamriel to, uh..." Ma'Ikau paused, suddenly realizing that he hadn't a clue what Emil was actually going to Tamriel for.

"Goodness, Ma'Ikau, don't you know?!" The first girl laughed. "If you don't know, then you should let him introduce  _himself_!"

"Well, all were asking and none were listening!" Ma'Ikau harrumphed. "This one was just trying to answer. Ma'Ikau  _did_  ask Celedaen first..." The boy folded his arms and did his best to look authoritative. Not that the loquacious femmes would have respected authority. They went right on talking without the slightest regard for Ma'Ikau, far more interested in Emil.

"M'Emil, huh? That's a funny name..." The second put in, rubbing her chin. "So where are you from, M'Emil, and why are you going to Tamriel?"

"I-It's  _Emil_  actually. Emil Castagnier..." Emil simpered. He took a breath, trying to ignore the way his heart was pounding like crazy and the way his hands dampened with sweat. "I'm, uh, from P-Palmacosta o-originally... b-but I live with my Aunt and U-Uncle in L-L-Luin... or I used to..." Emil fidgeted, trying his best not to stutter. But the more he tried, the more he couldn't help it. "I'm g-g-going t-to S-Sk-Skingr-grad to w-work..." The blond cringed, admonishing himself for being unable to control his cursed tongue. He couldn't get one sentence out properly. They probably thought he was an idiot, sitting there stuttering; he could only guess how red his face was.

To Emil's surprise, his stuttering went completely unnoticed. "Wow! I dunno where Luin is, but Skingrad's an awful long way from Palmacosta, so it must be even farther from wherever Luin is!" The second of the two girls spoke first this time.

"Why go so far away just to get a job? There must be plenty of work in your nation. Is it a good job?" The first inquired.

"Will M'Emil be working at  _Salmo's_?!" Ma'Ikau asked excitedly, grabbing Emil by his collar and shaking him. "Why did M'Emil not say so?! Is he trying to keep all the sweet-rolls to himself?!" Ma'Ikau continued to shake the confused boy, who had no idea what had sparked this bizarre accusation.

"N-n-n-no! I'm w-w-working for some n-noblem-man there!" the Khajiit boy ceased his shaking.

"Aww... no free sweet-rolls for Ma'Ikau..." The cat-boy folded his arms and pouted, thumping back down into his seat with a discouraged, moping look.

Both the ash-skinned girls giggled at this. "All Ma'Ikau thinks about is sweet-rolls. Tee-hee! Boys are just so easy to please. Men, too." The two girls giggled suggestively, and the reddish-blond boy harrumphed.

"Ugh, it's probably because of these two that Dunmer girls have the reputation of being promiscuous. You disgrace your race, perpetuating such awful stereotypes. Have you no shame?"

"Nope!" They both giggled. They giggled  _way_  too much...

The blond elf rolled his eyes and turned toward Emil. "So, Castagnier... I think I know a Breton by that name... Ever heard of an Annabelle?" Emil shook his head. "No relation then. Oh well. Wouldn't make a bit of difference to me, anyway. Never much cared for your kind. Useless..." Emil was a little taken aback by the dismissive attitude. Racism toward half-elves was strong in Aselia, mostly because the Desians were primarily half-elves, but he remembered having heard that such feelings extended back thousands of years when a half-elven "hero", Mithos, had betrayed his people and divided the nations. But, then again, Emil was never much of a history buff. What he  _did_  know was that he had  _never_  heard of or experienced racism directed toward humans, not from  _any_  race, half-elven or otherwise. Granted, there was animosity between half-elves and humans in Aselia - between half-elves and elves as well - but not like this.

"Oh, don't mind him." The first Dunmer pat Emil's hand. "He doesn't mean it how you think he does. He's only ever been interested in  _wealthy_  people, or people with status. He's a social climber... If you're not famous, he doesn't care about you in the least."

"Altmer like him think they're better than everyone, and they only really want to put themselves in the highest circles. But poor Celedaen here's stuck with us orphans and misfits."

"Oh, shut up, Glistel."

"I'm Mirili, you idiot!" She kicked him in the shins from under the table.

"Hey! That was uncalled for! And I know it's you, Glistel! Just because you've got an identical twin doesn't mean I can't tell you apart! I've known you too long for that!"

"Nyeh!" Both Mirili and Glistel stuck their tongues out at the Altmer before returning their attention to Emil.

"So, who did you say you were going to be working for?" Mirili, (the first of the two, and  _not_  the one who had just kicked the grouchy Altmer) asked.

"I, uh, didn't..." Emil blushed. "I a-actually don't know... M-my Aunt and Uncle got the job for me..."

"That's weird. You're going to work for someone you don't even know? And you're okay with that?"

"Y-yeah, I guess..."

"I think I've heard of some Bosmer from around there that was hiring people. Can't remember the man's name, though. But there's a rumor that he's secretly planning to take over as Count." Celedaen mumbled, not making eye-contact, almost as if he was talking to himself.

"R-really?" Emil didn't know if that was a good ambition or not.  _Maybe it's the same noble I'm supposed to work for..._  He thought a moment before he remembered the name of the man he would be meeting in Skingrad. If he was the one who was going to show him to his place of service, it made sense that he would also be in the employ of this mysterious nobleman. Maybe that would jog Celedaen's memory. "Um, have you heard of a Haskill? I'm supposed to meet him, and he's supposed to take me to my place of employment from there."

"Haskill... HaskillHaskillHaaaaaaskiiilllll... hmmmm..." Celedaen repeated the name a few times, drumming his fingers for a few moments before he seemed to come to some conclusion. "It sounds awfully familiar, but I don't remember the exact name of the family he served... 'Ay-something'... Whatever family owns Rosethorn Hall... I think..."

"And is that who the rumors are about?" Emil asked anxiously.

"Eh... I can't say..." He waved his hand dismissively. "I can't remember the name, so it's no use. I think that 'Ay-something guy'  _is_  a Bosmer so... it's certainly possible, but what does it matter? You'll find out when you meet the guy, right? Personally, I'd kiss up to him just in case. You never know... if he  _does_  manage to replace Count Hassildor, he'll hold tremendous influence and power. Not to mention all the money. Skingrad's one of the richest counties in all of Cyrodiil, maybe even the richest. Plenty of resources, access to Anvil's port, access to the Niben... Those are some tempting prospects, actually. I wonder if that guy's still hiring..."

"You're horrible, Celedaen. Trying to mooch in on someone else's opportunity." Glistel sighed, though she didn't sound particularly surprised that the Altmer boy was trying to do such a thing. 

"If one doesn't exploit opportunities, one never achieves greatness." The High-Elf remarked with a practiced, aristocratic snideness.

"If 'one' doesn't cease his pompous, irksome behavior, 'one' will find himself friendless..." Glistel warned.

"Oh! But listen to us, chattering on like Emil isn't here! We haven't even properly introduced ourselves yet!" The real Mirili spoke up. "I'm Mirili Douar, and this is my twin sister Glistel. Of course, it should be fairly obvious that we're twins, being identical and all that."

"They mean it  _literally_. They laugh at the same pointless drivel, trip down the same stairs, and date the same man at the same time... they're identical alright... you can tell which one Glistel is, though. She's the cutesy one, always using her 'innocent' charms to seduce men. Mirili's the craftier of the two, more opportunistic, tends to be that 'darker', more secretive kind of seductress. Either way, they're both whores."

"How,  _dare_  you!" Mirili leapt across the table and began to throttle the Altmer, but before Glistel got the chance to join in, Ma'Ikau successfully pried the two apart. Emil was stunned by the outburst. Emil wasn't used to seeing "friends" brawling like that. Granted, that might just have been due to his limited experience in the department of "having friends", but he found such behavior foreign and unprompted in a situation where all persons were purportedly comrades.

"Mirili is right, Celedaen. Just because they will mate with any male that has a pulse does not make them whores!" Ma'Ikau laughed, and Emil was quite surprised that the young boy even knew what a whore was.

"Ma'Ikau, I swear, if you weren't so adorable, I'd kill you." Glistel lilted in a very bipolar fashion.

"Meh, Ma'Ikau is right... At least whores get paid." Celedaen muttered, and the Khajiit had to fend off the angry Dunmer duo once more. Emil just sat off to the side, bewildered by this inexplicably  _jovial_  affray.

"Wow, calm down everyone! We leave you kids alone for a few minutes and you start brawling? At least have the decency to wait for us so we can place bets!" An older male with golden blond hair - fine, straight, shoulder length locks that framed his squared features well - and pale, ice-blue eyes chortled, carrying over a tray filled with platefuls of victuals for their meals.

"Well, kids will be kids, I suppose." A tall slim man followed close behind with another tray, a messy coif of brown hair surrounding his angular features, and behind him, a chubby young maiden with fluffy auburn hair and a sweet smile, carrying only a basket of bread.

"Finally!" Ma'Ikau was bouncing up and down excitedly, and Emil could only infer that meant the sweet-rolls had arrived. Emil assumed they were the sticky-looking, chestnut-brown things - they honestly looked more like muffins than rolls - and Emil was careful not to get between the young Khajiit and the basket, sensing that at any moment, the boy would pounce on his favorite dish.

"Oh, we have a new arrival to our little band of misfits!" The burly blond man said, nodding toward Emil with an acknowledging grin as he placed the tray he had brought in the center of the table and sat in the lone chair at the far end. "Well, there's plenty to go 'round, so help yourself to whatever you fancy. Though you may want to keep your distance form the sweet-rolls..." He raised his eyebrows at the sandy-furred Khajiit. "That little guy could eat his weight in the stuff."

"Yes, he's made it quite clear that he's got dibs on the sweets already." Mirili smiled. "He nearly strangled poor Emil here when he found out he was going to Skingrad to work. Thought he was going to be working at Salmo's Bakery, I suppose. Can't imagine how he jumped to that conclusion, but... Well, Salmo  _is_  a famous Skingrad denizen..."

"Indeed, he is." The eldest blond chuckled.

"Skindgrad, huh? My mother was born there. It's a beautiful county." The slim young man mused, placing the tray he'd brought and then the bread the younger female had been carrying. Ma'Ikau immediately grabbed three quarters of the sweet-rolls and began gorging on them with an appetite that amused Emil.

"Whoa, those must be even better than he lets on." Emil remarked aloud, not really thinking about what he was saying. He was starting to feel comfortable, despite the growing number of people surrounding him. They paid him an unusually  _normal_  amount of attention now, not excessive like Marta had, not ignoring him like his aunt and uncle had. He felt... calm in their (albeit boisterous) presence. He was beginning to peek out of his shell, open up just a bit. It was starting to feel less daunting... At last...

"Well, nab one while he's distracted and see for yourself." The blond man gestured to the few rolls left, taking a bite out of a juicy steak he had served himself from the (apparently) communal array of food.

Emil reached for one of the delectable-looking baked goods, only to withdraw with a start as the 10-year-old "Black-Hole-of-Sweet-Rolls" hissed at him. Everyone at the table laughed. "Don't worry, he won't  _really_  bite. He's just a little selfish; you know how kids can be." Glistel pointed to the bread basket with her fork. "Just take one. Ma'Ikau never manages to eat them all anyway... tries his damndest, but never quite gets past twenty..."

" _Twenty?_ " Emil repeated, hesitantly reaching for the quarry of as-of-yet unconfirmed "products of the Gods", finally snatching one with a nervous darting of the hand.

"That's his record. That's the most he's ever eaten in one sitting without throwing up."

"I'm surprised he could even fit twenty..." Emil gaped at the young boy, who had already managed to consume about half of his collection by now. The blond took a bite of his own sweet-roll, eyes widening as he let the new flavor coat his tongue. True to its name, the roll was delectably sweet, but not so saccharine as to be off-putting. It was smooth, light, soft, and airy, not nearly as dense as their glazed outward appearance might lead one to believe. There seemed to be both honey and sugar blended together to create that unique flavor, and he was quite fascinated with it. "Oh, wow, these  _are_  really good!" Emil grinned, greedily scarfing down the rest of the tasty roll and reaching for another.

"Hey!" Ma'Ikau shouted. "M'Emil can get his own!" He added what was left in the basket to his own pile and wrapped his arms defensively around his sticky-sweet treasures.

"Well, it's not like I was going to eat twenty of them!" Emil began tugging the young Khajiit's arms away and reaching in for another sweet sweet-roll. "C'mon, you can't hoard them all. Give me one!"

"Never!" Ma'Ikau hissed, teeth bared in a playful grin. "M'Emil will have to pry them from Ma'Ikau's cold, dead paws first!" He stuffed another three rolls in his mouth. "O' he wiww haff do ged dem ou' of Ma'Igau's bewwy by fowce!*" He mumbled through his mouthful of food.

"Eww! Don't be gross, Ma'Ikau!" Mirili grimaced as she and her twin munched on identical platefuls at an identical pace.

"Hahahahaha! It appears we've got a rivalry going over Evangeline's sweet-rolls, now! Bwhahaha!" The eldest blond laughed.

"Tobias, that sounded dirty." The brunet grumbled. "Be more careful about what you say. That's my wife, you know."

"Oh, pish-posh, dear. You don't need to take things so seriously. He didn't mean it to sound that way. Besides, if I remember correctly, Ambroise, it was my 'sweet-rolls' that caught your eye in the first place!" The chubby brunette gave a flirty giggle, which made her brunet partner blush.

"Ahahahaha! Good show, Eva! Good show!" The blond, Tobias, laughed. The man laughed with such gusto, for no real reason, and his booming laughter dwarfed the clamor of the chattering around them in the galley. Emil somehow found his enthusiasm... refreshing.

"More importantly, where are the others? Go figure; the day we have a new friend at the table and everyone's late!" Evangeline sighed. Emil's eyes widened. He had almost completely forgotten, but Celedaen  _had_  mentioned at least 3 others. This was already an extensive group of friends; he could hardly imagine  _more_  people seated around the small table. And Tobias had called it their "little" band of misfits...

"Wow, h-how many of you all  _are_  there?" Emil asked shyly, suddenly less comfortable with the prospect of being the center of an even _larger_ group's attention.

"Oh, just three others." Evangeline smiled. "No need to get spooked, dear. I take it you're not used to so much attention are you?"

"N-no, I'm not..." Emil blushed, tucking his head close to his chest, like a turtle withdrawing into its shell.

"Don't worry, kid. I used to be shy, too." Tobias smiled.

Emil gaped. "No... way..." The guy was  _huge_... Him? Shy? Never. Emil couldn't imagine a guy as imposing as Tobias would be scared of anything, much less something as mundane as talking to people.

"Oh,  _yes_  way." Tobias chuckled. "People don't believe it, but I was. I guess it was because I was so big... people never really wanted to talk to me. So I never really learned how to talk to people. It wasn't until I became a sailor here that I really got used to socializing. On a ship, one way or another, you're going to end up talking to someone. Think about it. It's a big, floating island, no-one on or off for months at a time. Eventually, someone's going to talk to you, either out of boredom or necessity. And you're trapped. Nowhere to hide on a boat. Too small. You can't avoid people. You just end up in a situation where you're forced to talk with others, and, after a while, you get used to it." He picked up an ordinary-looking piece of bread from the basket and buttered it, gesturing to the other foods. "Well? Are you going to eat or not?  Midnight's the next meal, and it's cold leftovers of this. Take the good stuff while you can."

"R-right." Emil nodded. He glanced over the choices available to him. There was still some steak left, and plenty of salad. There were baked potatoes and all the fixings, and a pasta dish with some kind of tomato-based sauce. There was also plenty of fresh bread and some sandwich fillings including jam, hazelnut spread, lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise, plenty of cheese, and some sliced ham. Emil took a little of everything and tucked in eagerly, glad to have an excuse not to talk if he needed one. The food was better than he expected for ship's rations, but he supposed the quality would slowly decline with the available food supply as the ship continued sailing. Still, it was better than the meager portions his aunt and uncle had fed him on.

The group continued chatting, smiling at Emil if they made eye contact, but otherwise leaving him to his meal. He knew he could jump right in to their conversation if he really wanted to, but he was content to listen for the moment. There was a bit of discussion about the state of affairs in Tamriel lately. A lot of this seemed to center around some person referred to only as "The Champion", and the last couple of years since the Oblivion Crisis. This piqued Emil's interest, since he knew nothing about the event other than its name and the fact that it was some sort of disaster. He could have asked, but he preferred to wait for more details to come up in conversation. He wasn't given a chance to overhear much more than a few vague tidbits before he was addressed directly.

"Well, Ma'Ikau is ready when M'Emil is." Ma'Ikau grinned, patting his now-full stomach. He picked up the last few sweet-rolls left and gestured to Emil. "Ma'Ikau is finished if M'Emil would still like a sweet-roll." Emil hesitated a moment, already beginning to feel full with his plate still bearing a bit more food than he was certain he could eat. But he  _did_  like sweet-rolls. He succumbed to temptation and accepted the young Khajiit's offer. As he munched on the fluffy delights, Ma'Ikau began his first lesson.

"So, how much does M'Emil know about Tamriel?"

"Not much... Just that it's an Empire and it's recovering from something called the 'Oblivion Crisis', but I have no idea what that is."

"Wow, M'Emil really does not know much at all, then." Ma'Ikau blinked at the older boy.

"The Crisis really  _didn't_  happen in your nation, did it?" Celedaen asked. For once, his voice was tinged with something other than derision or sarcasm. He sounded... a bit sad...

"No, it didn't." Emil shook his head. Was it supposed to happen in Aselia, too? Now Emil was  _really_  curious.

"That is peculiar. Ma'Ikau thought that all of Nirn was equally connected to Oblivion."

"Actually, rumor has it that Aselia is  _more_  directly connected to Oblivion... I've heard there's something called the Ginnungagap there that acts as a doorway between our world and Oblivion." Ambroise scratched his chin. "Is that true, Emil?"

"I'm not exactly sure..." the young teen simpered. "I  _have_  heard of the Ginnungagap before, but... uh, I'm not even sure what Oblivion actually is..." The human blushed, embarrassed by his lack of 'common knowledge'.

"Well, that's alright. After all, our nations  _just_  made contact again for the first time in  _ages_. It makes sense that you wouldn't know much about our history and vice versa. I'm a bit of a bookworm and a history buff, so I can run you through the basics." Ambroise cleared his throat and began. "The Oblivion Crisis happened just before the New Era began. In order to understand what the Crisis was, you need to understand how we think about our world. The mortal plane, which we call Mundus, is suspended in Oblivion - the realm of the Daedra."

"Daedra?" Emil raised an eyebrow.

"Ah, I keep forgetting, your language developed differently than ours... let me think... perhaps you've heard of 'daimons' then?"

"Daimons? Oh! You mean 'demons'?!" The blond's green eyes shone brightly when he realized what Ambroise must have meant. "Yes, I understand now! The Ginnungagap connects to Nifelheim, the realm of demons - which you call 'Oblivion', realm of 'Daedra'!"

"Ah! I knew it!" Ambroise clapped. "All we needed was to find the proper words! Now, then, was there any crisis relating to Nifelheim in your nation?"

"No. Not that  _I've_  heard of anyway. There wasn't anything unusual other than Vanguard riots..." the blond shrugged.

"Interesting... when did the riots start?"

"About two years ago..."

"Exactly the time when the Crisis began! That cannot be a coincidence... but it's still unusual that the Daedra did not appear in Aselia... Anyway, we won't get far wondering about such things now..." The Breton nodded. "So, where was I?"

"Mundus is suspended in Oblivion..." Celedaen mumbled disinterestedly.

"Ah, yes... Normally, Nirn - our planet - is protected from direct interaction with Oblivion by a barrier of sorts, created by the White Gold Tower and the Amulet of Kings. This barrier was created by the first Empress, Saint Alessia, and Akatosh, the great Dragon God of Time. Ah, the story is a rich and wondrous one, but far too long for today... Suffice it to say that Akatosh blessed Alessia with his heart and blood, the Amulet of Kings and the Dragonfires, vowing that as long as her heirs and their mixed bloodline remained true to him, he would protect Tamriel from the Daedra. This was the formation of the Covenant."

"We have a similar myth in Aselia!" Emil beamed. "Our hero, Mithos, made a pact with the Summon Spirit of the Ginnungagap, Ratatosk, in order to help end the war over Mana. But, that was over four thousand years ago..."

"Haha! Precisely the time that the First Era began! This is  _certainly_  not coincidence! I  _knew_  Aselia was bound to share commonalities with us! How grand!" Ambroise grinned from ear to ear. "We shall have to swap stories sometime in the near future, but for now, let us stick to the Oblivion Crisis. Now then, though Akatosh's Covenant allowed mortals to make use of the stabilizing qualities of the White Gold Tower, there was a proviso to the Covenant. If the Empire slackened its worship of Akatosh and the Aedra, or if Alessia's bloodline failed, the barrier between Nirn and Oblivion would weaken. The Amulet of Kings was the key to preventing this, for it was proof that the Empire still maintained the Covenant. Only the Septim bloodline, descendants of Alessia, could wear it.

"The Amulet was passed through the royal family, and used to relight the Dragonfires at the Temple of the One at the crowning of every Emperor. Those Dragonfires kept the barrier between Mundus and Oblivion stable. A little more than two years ago, the Emperor, Uriel Septim the Seventh, and all his know heirs were killed. The Dragonfires extinguished, as they do at the end of every Emperor's life, but, with no heir, the Dragonfires could not be lit, and the Daedra exploited this opportunity to invade Nirn. Under the command of the Daedric Lord, Mehrunes Dagon, swarms of Daedra poured forth out of the Deadlands, laying waste to whatever lay in their path."

"That sounds horrible..." Emil whispered, nibbling on the crust he had torn off his bread.

"It  _was_  horrible, idiot." Celedaen glowered. "The screams of your friends and family as a Daedroth rips them in two  _sounds_  horrible; the sight of their mangled, lifeless bodies _looks_  horrible; the stench of death, the ashy air, and the utter helplessness all smell, taste, and  _feel_  horrible; but living through that, that  _is_  horrible! So don't say such stupid things around me ever again!" Celedaen raged, drawing the attention of all others in the galley.

Emil whimpered and flinched, "I'm s-sorry, I was just--"

"It's alright, calm down." Tobias rested one of his large, calloused hands on the elf's shoulder. "The boy didn't mean anything by it. He was just trying to sympathize."

"Tch, whatever... I'm done... I'll see you all on deck..." The blond mer mumbled, stomping up the stairs, leaving the rest of the crew to murmur and wonder what the outburst was about.

"Sorry about him." Tobias sighed, giving Emil a comforting smile as the shocked silence in the room gradually gave way to the prior ambient muttering. "He's a tough one, that Celedaen. One of the few that survived the Sacking of Kvatch. He pretends like he's alright, but I think the Oblivion Crisis affected him more than any of us." 

"Both of his parents died when Kvatch was overrun." Glistel twisted her fork through the last few strands of pasta on her plate. "He doesn't talk about it, but I heard the Captain call him by his surname once. Vallye. They were a noble family from Summerset Isle. The only reason I can think of for him to be in a place like this... is that he's got nowhere else to go..." The Dunmer said sadly. "I think it upsets him, being pitied. So we act like we don't know. But, I think he acts the way he does because he doesn't know what else to do. His family, his very way of life, was stolen from him, and I think that's why he's so lost..."

Emil nodded hesitantly.  _So, he lost his parents, too..._  That realization made him feel sick inside. He didn't have to imagine what it was like to watch the people he loved die... he already knew  _exactly_  what that was like. His stomach turned remembering the carnage he had seen during the Blood Purge. Neighbors he had known all his life, other kids from school, covered in blood, some no longer breathing, others wailing in despair over motionless bodies. Nothing looked the same, everything was red, red, red. Burning, blood-stained. He had lost sight of his parents, the roar of the blaze and the screams around him drowned out his own frantic cries.  _Mom... Dad..._  Everything was blurry, he couldn't see straight from all the tears. There were men dressed in brown, wearing white masks, slaughtering the people around him. He'd never smelled anything so awful, before or since that day, as the scent of burning human flesh... It was all he could do not to throw up at the table, remembering that foul stench.

"Hey, are you alright, Emil?" Mirili asked. "You've gone really pale..."

"Was it something we said?" Glistel frowned. 

"No... I-I'm alright... J-just a little seasick." Emil lied.

"M'Emil is fibbing." Ma'Ikau smirked. "M'Emil is thinking about what Celedaen said. Ma'Ikau knows this." The young boy pat the blond on the back. "Do not worry about it. He is not behaving as himself. Celedaen is not bad. Celedaen is the one who helped Ma'Ikau and Jo'Kasha get jobs here." The Khajiit smiled. 

"That's true." Tobias grinned. "Celedaen may be a bit rough around the edges, but he's a good kid. Don't let his little outburst get to you. Give him time; I'm sure he'll warm up to you eventually."

Emil perked up a bit, glad to have the distraction of conversation to pull him back from his dark memories.

"Well, ahem, anyway..." Ambroise cleared his throat. "I suppose you understand the basics of the Oblivion Crisis now, yes?" Emil nodded. "I suppose you'll want to know how it was averted, then, right?"

"Yes." The blond agreed.

"Well, as you can imagine, without an heir, Tamriel should have been doomed to be swallowed up by Oblivion. But it wasn't. This is because of the Champion of Cyrodiil." 

 _So the Champion_  does _have something to do with all this..._  Emil thought. He was still brimming with curiosity about this mysterious Champion, so he thought now would be a good time to ask. "Um... e-excuse me? Why is it that you only c-call the Champion by that t-title? Surely he h-has a n-n-name?"

"Ah. There's a very simple answer to that." Ambroise smiled. "It's become taboo to refer to any hero by their name, gender, or race. It's had the problem of creating prejudices. If we start keeping track of who becomes a hero, then people start picking favorites. If more Nords seem to become heroes, then people will start looking at Nords differently. If more men become heroes, then women feel discouraged, and Gods know that as soon as you attach a name, both gender and race fall into question and everyone squabbles. Not to mention you end up with a thousand boys named Cyrus."

"Wh-why Cyrus?" Emil cocked his head. Wasn't that the name of one of their group?

"Cyrus is about the only widely publicized hero in our lore. A young Redguard male. Now, virtually every other boy from Yakuda is named after him. Even one of our crewmates is named after him. Creates all sorts of confusion as you can imagine, with so many Cyruses, and, of course, more stereotypes. Besides, heroes are special cases. Not even the Elder Scrolls can predict anything about their fate. So, it's become a general practice to refer to heroes by title only. 'He' is an accepted pronoun, in a gender neutral sense, the same way Daedric Princes are referred to as such, but it's considered more respectful to use the full title rather than a pronoun since 'he' is used more commonly as a masculine pronoun. 'Xe/xir/xem' was once proposed as a pronoun, but it never really caught on."

"That's... very confusing..." Emil muttered. "It's going to be hard getting used to that."

"Don't worry about it too much. No one will blame you if you mess up a few times. The history is what's important. Ah! Speaking of which, we got sidetracked! Is it alright to get back to the story now?" Emil nodded, listening carefully to the rest of the story. "Now, then, the Oblivion Crisis itself. Well, it all began when the Emperor was attacked at the Imperial Palace - White Gold Tower. Some of the Emperor's guards - the Blades - held off the assassins while others guided him down to the dungeon to escape through a secret passage built into one of the cells. However, though it should not have been the case, in the very cell that disguised the secret passage, a prisoner was being held. Some say the prisoner reminded the Emperor of an old friend, others say it was prophesy or fate, but for whatever reason, the Emperor chose to pardon the fortunate prisoner and allowed him to follow as they made their escape. The assassins were relentless, and slowly whittled down the Emperor's bodyguards as they fled through the sewers. Knowing his end was nigh, Emperor Septim entrusted the Prisoner with the Amulet of Kings. Though the assassins succeeded in killing the Emperor, the Prisoner managed to escape with the Amulet.

"The Prisoner was next seen with the Amulet in Weynon Priory, a little place near Chorrol. Jauffre, Grandmaster of the Blades, took possession of the amulet there, and sent the Prisoner to find Martin, a priest in Kvatch. But Martin was no ordinary priest. Unbeknownst to even himself, Martin was Uriel Septim's illegitimate child, the last remaining heir to the throne. However, the Prisoner arrived to find that Kvatch had been almost entirely destroyed. Daedra were pouring out in waves, through an Oblivion Gate. No one, not even the Guards of Kvatch who accompanied the Prisoner are quite sure how it was done, but the Prisoner was able to close the Oblivion Gate, and with Martin's help, the Prisoner and the guards were able to drive the remaining Daedra out of Kvatch. From this point onward, the Prisoner was known as the Hero of Kvatch. 

"The Hero of Kvatch then guided Martin back to Weynon Priory, only to find it had been sacked and the Amulet stolen. Fortunately, Jauffre survived the attack, and the three of them made their way to Cloud Ruler Temple, a stronghold of the Blades hidden high in the mountains near Bruma. Here, Jauffre and the Blades kept Martin safe while the Hero of Kvatch set out in search of the Amulet. 

"We now know that the Emperor's assassination and the theft of the Amulet were acts carried out by an occult group of Daedric worshipers who called themselves the Mythic Dawn. They worshiped Mehrunes Dagon, the Daedric Prince of Destruction, so the carnage at Kvatch was no surprise. No one is quite sure how, but the Hero of Kvatch and Baurus, a member of the Blades, were able to decipher the location of the cult's secret lair using the Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes - esoteric works written by the madman Mankar Camoran, the Mythic Dawn's leader. Camoran apparently believed himself to be a direct descendant of Camoran Usurper, the infamous pretender to the throne of Valenwood, but, that's another matter entirely... Scholars familiar with the Commentaries claim that no direct mention is made in the texts of any such lair, and to this day, no one is quite sure where it is or how to find it, but it is supposedly somewhere near Lake Arrius. 

"Some say the Hero used trickery and disguise to masquerade as a member of the Mythic Dawn in order to penetrate their defenses, but as no official record exists, much of the details of this particular incident are hearsay. What is widely agreed upon, however, is what happened once the Hero had infiltrated their lair. Mankar Camoran fled into Oblivion with the Amulet of kings, but all was not lost, for the Hero managed to escape with their holy text, the Mysterium Xarxes itself. Martin was able to decipher the text and intended to use the book in order to open a gateway to Mankar Camoran in order to retrieve the Amulet. But, before Martin could perform the ritual to open the gate, Mehrunes Dagon opened an Oblivion Gate just outside of Bruma. Yet again, the Hero came to the rescue, closing the gate before the Daedra could lay waste to Bruma and Cloud Ruler Temple. From then on, the Hero of Kvatch was also known as the Savior of Bruma.

"Once the city and Temple were safe, Martin opened the gateway to Mankar Camoran's 'Paradise', some twisted realm of Oblivion that Camoran used for his own mysterious purposes. Nothing is known about this mysterious realm or what precisely transpired within. All that is known for certain is that the Savior traveled to this Paradise, killed Mankar Camoran, and returned with the Amulet of Kings.

"With the Amulet in hand, Martin presented himself to the Elder Council to be crowned Emperor of Tamriel. Once crowned, he would be able to relight the Dragonfires and restore the barrier between Tamriel and Oblivion. But, in a last-ditch effort to stop him, Mehrunes Dagon launched an all-out assault on the Imperial City. Several Oblivion Gates opened within the capital, and swarms of Daedra poured out. Uncrowned, Martin himself joined the battle beside the Savior of Bruma.

"Then, the unthinkable happened. Mehrunes Dagon himself entered Tamriel, breaking the Covenant that Akatosh forged with Alessia. Now, with the barrier between realms ripped asunder, it was too late to relight the Dragonfires. Martin Septim made the ultimate sacrifice - he shattered the Amulet of Kings and transformed into the avatar of Akatosh, a great flaming dragon. Records of the battle vary widely, though the outcome is obvious. Mehrunes Dagon was defeated and sent back to Oblivion, but at a lamentable price. Akatosh's avatar - Martin Septim, the last Dragonblood Emperor - turned to stone. The statue remains to this day in the Temple of the One. Now, the barrier to Oblivion is sealed forever."

"A little dry, Ambroise, but not bad!" Tobias and the others at the table applauded. "You should hear him recite 'The Song of Pelinal'! Totally different experience."

"W-well, there was a lot of explaining to be done!" Ambroise folded his arms and huffed, obviously a little irritated that his story-telling skills were deemed less than impeccable.

"Aw, we know, dear." Evangeline kissed him lightly on the cheek. "You did a wonderful job."

"He took  _Ma'Ikau's_  job..." The young Khajiit grumbled. "This one was going to teach M'Emil all sorts of things in exchange for better speaking, and now all are leaving this one with nothing to teach! At this rate, Ma'Ikau will talk like a 'Skooma Cat' forever!"

"'S-Skooma Cat'?" Emil repeated.

"It's an idiom for 'lunatic'." Ambroise clarified. "It came about for different reasons. Skooma is primarily a Khajiiti good. Some people who have more intense reactions to Skooma babble incoherently like lunatics. Also, in the Khajiiti pantheon, the Lord of Madness, Sheggorath, is alternately called the 'Skooma Cat', ergo the term 'Skooma Cat' means 'lunatic'."

"Oh." Emil nodded. "That makes sense."

"Agh! Still others are teaching what  _Ma'Ikau_  should be!" The young Khajiit groaned in frustration. "Come, M'Emil, before others ruin this one's chance..." He grabbed the young blond by the wrist and tugged him away from the table.

"Ah! O-okay, okay! You don't need to yank on me!" Emil scrunched up his face in an awkward grimace coupled with a faint smile, remembering how often he'd said the same thing to Marta.

"See you on deck, Emil!" Tobias winked, waving as Ma'Ikau dragged the boy up the stairs leading out of the galley.

###### To be continued...


	5. Dawn of a New Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after the tragic anniversary of Aster's death, Richter is slowly starting to put his life back together. Some packages arrive with a letter from a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOW THE FUCK HAS IT ALMOST BEEN 3 YEARS?! WHAT THE FUCK?! WHAT THE EVERLOVING FUCK?!
> 
> I don't know how this got away from me. I love this story very much. I'm even planning to turn it into an original fiction someday! WHY IS THIS TAKING ME SO LONG?! I promise this is my primary focus! I have so many fics going, but I REALLY want to focus on this one so I can do an original version and have it published someday! For an author, I'm pretty shitty at writing consistently, huh? (It might help if I got paid to do it but oh well...)
> 
> This is a bit shorter than my usual chapters but it felt natural to stop here. There were going to be a couple extra scenes but I figured I would save the juicy stuff for later~
> 
> As always, I hope you all enjoy!

Midmorning sunshine crept through the curtains of Rosethorn Hall, casting warm rays of glittering gold upon red hair. Richter twitched, still half-dreaming. He was in the garden with Aster, having afternoon tea. Aster acted like he had never left, laughing as he and Richter both reached for the last sweet-roll. “You have it.” Richter smiled, nudging the plate toward his friend.

"We’ll split." The younger male grinned, carefully dividing the sweet in two even pieces. The half-elf nodded, lifting the sweet-roll in a sort of ‘toast’.

"To friendship."

"Yes, to friendship." They simultaneously bit into their delectable treat. Warm glaze ran the length of his tongue, the soft, moist cake felt good against his teeth, the perfect texture. He sighed blissfully as he swallowed, more satisfied than he’d ever been before.

“So, what’s on the itinerary today?” Aster asked, gracelessly flicking a crumb off of his shirt and watching it fly across the lawn like a planthopper trying to set an Olympic record.

Richter groaned, recalling his packed schedule. “If you want the short answer: everything. I’ll be meeting a new hire today, I have three different language lessons, product testing, and probably a violin lesson.”

“Violin?” Aster cocked an eyebrow. “I thought you knew how to play already.”

“I do, but I haven’t practiced lately and Haskill says my fingering has been getting sloppy so--”

“Pfffft!” Aster couldn’t help but snort, failing miserably as he tried to contain his laughter. “Sloppy fingering, huh? How so? I mean when you play, are you finishing too fast or too slow?” Aster sneered, doubling over and convulsing with laughter as Richter swatted him.

“Do you _have_ to turn everything into an innuendo? For Mara’s sake….” Richter did his utmost to keep a straight face knowing that laughter would only encourage the blond, but he couldn’t help but smirk.

“Admit it, Ric, you love it when I make everything sound dirty.”

Richter sighed. “I don’t hate it, but you really are uncouth sometimes.”

“That’s my job. I’m here to keep you from getting too stuffy. You may be a noble, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun.”

“I guess. I just wish I could indulge in that frivolity more often. I have so much to deal with all the time.”

“Well, I mean, today’s schedule’s not _too_ much.”

“I know it’s not, but I just have _no_ energy today. I don’t want to do anything.” Richter buried his face in his hands.

Aster gave him a comforting pat on the back. “Yeah. I know the feeling. Sometimes you just have off days. No shame in that.” The blond thought for a moment before he perked up, getting to his feet and stretching. A look of mischief filled his eyes as he stared out at the horizon. "Hey, let’s go to the beach. I feel like a swim."

"Right now?!" Richter was equal parts surprised and amused at the suggestion. "We’re not dressed for it."

"So?" Aster smirked. "When has that stopped us? Besides, you don’t _dress_ for swimming. You _undress_.”

Richter chuckled. “Yeah, you’ve got me there. But the beach is a long way off. Haskill’d catch us before we even made it half-way…”

"It’s not like it’s that far! Are you _really_ going to chicken out because your butler might scold you?! Have you lost your sense of adventure?!” Aster teased, cocking his head toward the stables. “C’mon, we’ll take the horses. No one will know we’re gone. And if they do, we can think up an excuse.”

Richter shook his head with a grin. “The things I let you talk me into…”

The two young men crept in through the worn, wooden doors, each selecting a mount. Richter saddled up his usual, a fine black steed, and Aster took a brown mare. “You ready?” Aster whispered, as he made sure the reins and saddle were secure.

"Almost. If we’re going to do this, we might as well go prepared. Wait here a minute. I’ll be right back." Richter crept around the corner, darting into the supply shed when he was sure the coast was clear. The walls were lined with gardening tools and bits of the old patio furniture. He spotted the old flannel tablecloths, and, to his surprise and delight, his bow and arrows. He hung the quiver over his shoulder, and gathered the tablecloths under each arm, too lazy to fold them. With bow firmly in hand, he ducked back out of the shed and hurried over to Aster, who had led the horses out onto the lawn.

"These should come in handy." Richter tossed one of the cloths to Aster, hanging his own on his horse’s neck. "And I’m sure Haskill wouldn’t mind us leaving for a little ‘shooting practice’." He held up his bow, planning to use it as an excuse for their excursion if they were caught.

"Way ahead of you." Aster held up his own bow and a pair of daggers, his preferred dueling weapons. "Better safe than sorry on these roads, anyway." He mounted his horse, gesturing for Richter to follow. Richter had barely settled in his saddle when his companion gave his horse a firm slap. "Race ya!”

"No fair!" Richter growled, spurring his horse to follow. They galloped down the hillside, leaping the fence at the edge of the property. Richter caught up easily with Aster, and they ran neck-and-neck until they reached The Gold Road. They followed it west, laughing. Richter’s heart was pounding like his horse’s hooves, wind whipping both manes, black and red, into billowing rivers. It was exhilarating.

Aster grinned, spreading his arms, throwing his head back. “Wooooohooooooo!” The boy whooped, smiling over at Richter.

Richter shook his head, chuckling. “You’re such a child.”

"Hey! I am _not_!” Aster stuck out his tongue. “You take that back!” Aster nocked an arrow. “ _Do it_ …” He aimed toward the redhead. “ _Or else!_ "

The half-mer scoffed. “Or else _what_? You’ll _shoot_ me?! Puh-lease!”

"Don't bet that I won't!" Aster's lips curled into a mischievous smile, pulling the bowstring taut.

"You wouldn't dare." The half-elf scoffed. Aster could be impetuous but he was not foolhardy.

"Wouldn't I, though?" Richter flinched as the blond laughed and loosed his arrow. It whizzed past ahead of him, missing by a considerable distance. If the intent had been to scare him, it certainly didn't work.

"Are you getting sloppy Aster? You missed me by a... mile..." The noble stiffened as he rode past where the arrow had landed: dead center of a knothole no bigger than his eye. Whether centering the shot was a fluke or not didn’t matter; hitting such a small target at such a distance was proof enough of Aster’s skill. He could certainly hit Richter anywhere he liked at such close range.

The noblemer raised his hands in submission. “Alright, alright. I apologize. You’re not a child. You’re a man. A big strong man with excellent aim.” He snickered. He knew Aster would never hurt him on purpose, or at least no more than a bruise, but the fact that he could with little effort was intimidating.

“Damn straight! And don’t you forget it!” Aster laughed. “Otherwise, if you keep making such insults, I might just have to follow through with that plan of performing a vivisection on you and seeing what makes you tick.” Richter stiffened at the threat, and Aster couldn’t contain a laugh at the sight. “Of all the things I threaten to do to you, that one scares you most, eh, Ric?”

"Nobody wants to be cut open when they're alive, Aster!" Richter blurted.

"Healers will do it, sometimes. And necromancers will sometimes do it to the undead."

"Medical necessity doesn't count, Aster. And neither does anything to do with necromancy... poor soul-less husks reanimated by insufficient magicka."

"Technically, the undead _do_ have souls." Aster pointed out. "Otherwise you couldn't harvest them as Aura stones."

"Always have to be a smart alek don't you?" Richter shook his head. "Fine, then... poor lifeless husks with implanted animal souls reanimated with insufficient magicka."

"That's better... although I'm not sure 'lifeless' is an entirely accurate descriptor..." Aster scratched his chin pensively.

"Oh, for the love of Y'ffre!" Richter scoffed. "You really are stubborn."

"No more stubborn than you." Aster retorted. “Ugh, really, Ric. When did you start acting like a stuffy old man? You need to learn to let loose and have a bit of fun every now and again.”

“Well… that’s what you’re here for.” The nobleman smirked. He urged his horse onward, passing Aster by and continuing their little “race.” The blond laughed and pursued. The two went galloping down the road toward Anvil and the sea. They rounded a bend in the road, thundering across a bridge, where they caught a glimpse of the high stone walls of the ruins of Miscarcand, now overrun with goblins and undead warriors.

The undead, the majority of which were skeletons, were warring as always with the local tribe of impish green cretins, and they appeared to be winning ground this skirmish.

“Poor little imps.” Aster cooed in a way that could almost be considered _affectionate._ “What say we give them a hand, Ric?” Aster readied his bow.

“Well, I have very little interest in assisting the annoying little gremlins in their turf war, but I can’t say I mind freeing those poor captive souls from their decrepit bodies.” Richter reached for his own weapon. In one smooth motion, he pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocked it, aimed and released. A goblin shaman shrieked as the skeleton fighter it was engaged with reeled backward, Richter’s arrow sinking into its shoulder armor.

“Nice shot.” Aster nodded, shielding his eyes from the sun as he watched the goblin finish off its foe thanks to Richter’s assist. “You got him, but you didn’t kill him.”

“It was _one_ arrow, Aster! Against an undead foe! Please explain to me how you’re supposed to achieve a fatal hit against a skeleton warrior with a single arrow!”

“Like this.” Aster drew an arrow from his quiver and aimed carefully, loosing it between a pair of trees as the horse continued its gallop down the road. Richter squinted and watched as one of the skeletal skirmishers was beheaded, the rest of its body quivering and crumpling into a lifeless heap without a soul to support it.

“How in the--? Wh-where did you even _hit_ it?” The nobleman blinked in astonishment.

“Well, I can’t say for sure where without examining the remnants, but I was aiming for the nose.”

“The _nasal cavity?_ ” Richter drew an arrow and examined the head. “That’s an ambitious shot! You’d have to be extremely precise! The arrowheads are practically the same size as the opening!”

“Well, I managed it, didn’t I?” Aster smirked.

“Nuh-uh, I don’t believe it.” Richter shook his head incredulously. “Even if you did, it must have been a fluke. I’d bet a hundred Septims you couldn’t do it twice in a row.”

“I’ll take that bet!” The blond chirped, executing a second shot to similar effect. He held out his hand, expecting payment.

Richter’s lips curled into a grimace and he snarled, digging out a coin from his pocket and slapping it onto the other’s open palm.

Aster giggled and pocketed the money. “Why do you have to make that face? It’s not like you can’t afford it. 100 Septims is like a handkerchief to you.”

“You’re perfectly right. I can afford it. But no amount of money will keep you from being a _smug little brat_ about it the rest of the day.”

“Am I really that smug or are you just _jealous_ that a human like me is a better archer than you?” The blond asked, sticking out his tongue.

“ _Both_ , actually.” Richter shook his head, giving the other a weak smile. Aster was far too good at reading him. He always had been.

“Fine then, I’ll give you a chance to earn back your elven pride.” The younger male pointed to a pike thrust into one of the higher ramparts. It was covered in a stack of skulls - the usual marker of goblin territory. On top of the pike was a scrap of fabric, barely the length of his arm and the width of his thigh, flying in the wind like a flag. “See that cloth? If you can hit that… I’ll buy you a meal in town, my treat. Sound good?”

Richter gulped. It was breezy out, and shooting a moving target from horseback was already difficult enough. The skeletons moved slowly, and in a predictable manner. The flag did neither of those things. But a making Aster pay for a meal was very tempting. “What if I miss?” The noble asked, wanting to know the true stakes before he accepted the challenge.

“No faith in yourself, huh?” Aster laughed. “If you miss, no free dinner. That’s all.” The blond smiled at him. “My continued ‘smugness’, as you call it, is punishment enough if you fail, don’t you agree?”

The noblemer nodded. “Alright, I can take those odds. Even if there wasn’t a free meal on the line, you’d laugh at me if I missed, anyway, so that’s no loss to me.” Richter nocked an arrow and steadied his breath, carefully timing his shot between the horse’s strides, the trees, and the gusts of wind. He clenched his teeth, arms and chest aching as he held back, core throbbing he held his breath. _Steady… steady…_

“Shoot already!” Richter’s finger’s slipped and his heart jumped at the sound of Aster’s voice. _Phug._ The bow and bow-string vibrated as he accidentally loosed his arrow, and he flinched, cursing under his breath. He was about to tell Aster off for startling him and ruining his shot when the other began clapping. “See, you just need to get your timing right.”

Aster pointed toward the flag, now curling around itself; Richter’s shot was snagged in the bottom corner of the worn textile, ripped from the post when the arrow landed. The half-elf’s face lit up. “I hit it? I _actually_ hit it?!”

“Yep! You hit it, Ric! See? You can shoot well when you try! Like I said, it’s all about timing. Half the time you don’t spend long enough aiming, and then when you actually _do,_ you spend _too much_ time aiming and completely miss your opportunity. Take your time, but remember, there will never be a _perfect_ moment to shoot. Just a ‘good enough’ moment. Good thing I didn’t let you miss that one!”

“You--? You… you startled me on purpose to get me to hit it.” Richter sighed when he realized Aster’s influence. “Damn, even when you’re not the one shooting, you never miss!”

Aster smiled. “That’s not true, Ric. I miss plenty. And, more importantly, you’ll get better!”

Simpering, Richter nodded. “Yeah, eventually.” He ran his fingers through his hair then, sheepishly, asked “So… do I still get my free meal?”

“Sure do!” Aster beamed. “The deal was whether or not you hit it, irrespective of how it happened.”

The noble beamed in excitement. “I’m going to make you regret setting those odds, you know that, right?”

“I knew the price of making that bet going in. Trust me, I’ll regret nothing.” A mischievous glint flashed in the blond’s eyes. “Also, I said I’d buy you a meal. Who said you’d be eating it?”

Richter didn’t like that look one bit. “And how do you propose to stop me from eating it?”

“I said I would buy you a meal, I didn’t say I’d let you pick what it was.” The blond wore a devilish grin as he continued. “So how about it, Ric? You want to try a nice, juicy pork chop with some summer squash?”

Richter could feel the bile rising to his lips as all color drained from his face. “I’d rather eat my own ass.”

Aster snorted. “Well, I’ll cut you off a thick slice, Ric. Bend over!” The human brandished one of his daggers.

Richter clenched his butt cheeks in fear and kicked his palfrey into a gallop racing across the barrows knowing that the mischievous human would take him at his word. Aster cackled and raced to keep up and after a few moments, began to overtake his friend as they neared the shore.

“I’ll race you to the water!” he shouted leaping off his horse mid-stride and flinging himself into the surf, his horse wickering and the waves crashed against its chest. Richter, forgetting the threats from their ride shouted after Aster in concern when his head did not surface after a few moments. “Are you okay?” Only crashing waves answered and his concern rose. “Aster! Aaaa- ster!” Richter began to wade deeper into the surf and just as he was about to call out yet again he felt the water wash up his doublet and an evil voice whisper “Richter” in his ear. Then, Aster’s voice was accompanied by a sharp poke to his butt. He yelped in surprise. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Richter could see the grin and eyebrow wiggle on his mate’s face and his cheeks and ear tips flushed with heat. He turned to Aster, saw him toss the dagger over his shoulder sticking it into the driftwood and then reached out to cup his chin.

“Show off,” he grinned. Aster’s eyes glinted blue with the reflection of the ocean as he stretched to kiss Richter. It was a warm kiss, and sincere like that of sun waking you up on a Sunday morning. He felt warm all over, lost in the kiss. He opened his eyes to see Aster and was greeted by a rich red velvet curtain. He sighed with happiness and regret that the dream could not continue. Longing and sadness would come and haunt him during the day but while in the early morning embrace of the dream he would remember, vanilla, cinnamon, and sunshine washing over him.

He turned over, pulling the curtain aside to find Haskill still sleeping upright in his chair. _He stayed with me all night. Still loyal as ever._ Richter reached out, giving the butler a gentle tap.

The old man stirred to wakefulness, blinking blearily, his cloudy eyes focused on his master. “Good morning, sir.” Haskill’s hand fumbled across the nightstand, finding the noblemer’s glasses and handing them over. “Sleep well?”

“Very.” Richter replied. “I suppose that candle trick really does work. It’s been ages since I’ve had such a nice dream.”

“I told you so, sir,” Haskill said with a smile, reaching for the extinguisher and snuffing both candles.

“What time is it?” Richter inquired, glancing to the window.

“I imagine around noon, sir, given the angle of the sun.” Haskill answered.

“Should have had someone wake us.” Richter muttered, slipping out of bed.

“I can’t imagine why no one did. I did instruct the chef to make you breakfast. Someone would have brought it up, I should think.”

“It’s no use trying to cram all of today’s schedule in. No lessons today. Thankfully no court either. I will, however, meet with the new employee.”

“Very good, sir. Would you like to bathe?”

“I believe that would be wise.” The nobleman nodded. His depression had waned a bit with the influence of his pleasant dreams. The pangs of sadness still gripped his heart, but he felt he had enough strength and energy to face the new day. In fact, he even felt well enough to stomach a meal. “You said you ordered breakfast prepared? What would have been served?”

“A bit of everything, sir. I would hazard that the scones should still be fresh and palatable. I could have the chef prepare some toast or porridge if you’d like.”

“Some dry toast should be fine. I think I can manage to stomach that…”

“Wonderful. I’ll have him make it straight away.” Haskill bowed, the gesture hiding a fleeting smile. To have his master eating again was quite the relief. “Would you care to dine before or after your bath?”

“Before, I think. Have we received mail?”

“I wouldn’t know, my lord.”

Richter frowned. “Ah, of course. Pardon me. Well, if there is any, I’ll answer it while I wait for my meal. At least then something will get done today.”

“As you wish.” Haskill nodded, holding out a robe.

Richter wrapped himself in what was offered and made his way down stairs. The wooden railing of the banister was cool to the touch and the saccharine smoke of incense lingered in the air, still wafting from the altars after morning prayer. The floorboards sighed beneath him as he shuffled to the dining hall, fingers lingering on the molding of the threshold.

The dining hall seemed barren. The table stretched from where he stood to the hearth on the opposite wall, the settings bare, the centerpieces wilted, the table runner covered in a thin layer of dust except near the three seats at the head where he usually sat. Most of the furnishings had succumbed to the effects of disuse. Cobwebs were strung between most every corner and joint in the room, the curtains were musty, half the chairs were wobbly as there had been no reason to repair them. Richter rarely entertained guests.

His fingers left trails in the dust as he dragged his hand along the table, making his way to his seat. The upholstery received his weight, cradling his lithe frame as he settled in. Footsteps announced Haskill’s approach, and he arrived bearing parcels and papers.

“Mail, sir.” Haskill laid the papers and packages on the table before his master along with parchment, quill, inkwell, and a blade for opening letters. “I’ll go and tell the cook to prepare your toast. What would you care to drink, sir?”

“Tea, please. Ceylon.”

“Would you like the scones brought out as well?”

“Yes. Thank you, Haskill.”

The butler nodded. “Do you require anything else?”

“I should like to paint later. Have my things brought to the courtyard when my errands are done for the day.”

“As you wish, young master.” Haskill withdrew with a bow, heading off to the kitchen.

Richter riffled through the mail idly. Most of the letters were from fellow noblemen, including one from Count Hassildor. There were also a few from citizens, likely requesting an audience in court. The packages interested him most. A friend of his - the owner of an oddities shop with a penchant for getting their hands on rare items - had sent him several parcels, no doubt things he had ordered for his research.

Richter reached out for the first package, the smallest at the top of the stack. It was a wooden box with a brass latch and lock holding it shut. He glanced at the lock curiously and then at his pile of mail for a letter. Sure enough there was an envelope addressed to him in purple ink. Smiling slightly to himself he grabbed the letter and sliced it open. The enclosed letter had a small key attached to it and a note in large messy writing: “Didn’t anyone tell you to read the letter before you open the package?” Richter sighed, detached the key and flipped open the letter from Eularia. One of the pages included a bill which, he realized to his chagrin, he had not paid for several months. The other page was a personal letter chiding his absence and inviting him on an outing explaining that if he couldn't pay his bill he would need to work in the shop. The postscript simply said “Give me a challenge next time.”

He rolled his eyes and turned to the locked box, unlocked it with the key and lifted the lid. His eyebrows raised in surprise and interest. Dragon teeth. How in the name of Mara did she get them so quickly? He was not expecting to be able to test his new soul transference theory for months. After examining the teeth for a few minutes and cutting a finger on one of the molars, he closed and re-locked the box, stowing it in his robe pocket. Haskill would not approve of such an extravagant expenditure. He then began to open the other packages. Eularia had sent his package of herbs and spices, some Aura Stones of varying size, and his favorite tea as a gift. The rest of his packages were mundane in comparison including, a writing kit, a new dagger, clothing for the new staff members and a package for Haskill. The last two he left wrapped to be taken away.

Haskill approached, carrying a tray that wafted the scent of fresh bread to Richter’s nose. With tea poured the half-elf tucked into his meal. He idly flipped through the remainder of his letters as he ate, crumbs spilling onto the letters as he crunched on his toast. As expected, the letters from citizens were indeed requesting court dates. The letter from Hassildor was an invitation to a party a few months off. Richter sighed, supposing he couldn’t blow off another social engagement. He drafted an RSVP and had his parcels sent up to his study as he finished eating. Hunger sated, he rose, prepared to face the rest of his day with all the courage and composure he could muster.


	6. Learning Curve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to Emil's first night on the ship. Ma'Ikau shows him around and introduces him to the rest of the crew. Things take a turn as it turns out some of the crew isn't quite so friendly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update in the same year?! I'm like a fucking powerhouse writer! (Haha, I should probably be getting one chapter done per month, but nope.)  
> For real though, this chapter felt like it went a lot faster than usual and I'm going to try to keep going like this! I have a few more things I'm working on, and I hope to have something else done this month! (Maybe even TWO things!) I hope you all enjoy this chapter! Special thanks to Aery_Child for helping with my research on ships and seafaring and for sticking with me and giving me advice while I fiddled with Ma'Ikau's speech patterns.

“Hey, Emil! Toss me that rope there, would ya?” 

“Sure thing Demetrius. Here!” The blond grabbed a coil of rope, awkwardly chucking it at the brunet hanging from the shrouds.

“Thanks, kiddo.” Demetrius gave a quick salute before scuttling back up the ratlines to the mainsail. Cicero, Ambroise, and Tobias were already at work furling the sail, though Cicero did seem to be half asleep and making a terrible mess of his job.

“That was a terrible throw, Nede.” Ma’Ikau grinned. “Let this one show M’Emil how to throw it all the way to the yards.” Emil watched as Ma’Ikau grabbed a length of rope and tied an odd ball-shaped knot on one end. “This is called a ‘monkey paw.’ Very useful for tossing lines a great distance. Even better with a rock in the center. Can be used for whacking people,” the Khajiit said, demonstrating by gently thwacking Emil on the head. “Even whacking faraway people,” Ma’Ikau motioned for Emil to follow as he took position beneath the mainsail where the others were working. “Watch this one bonk lazy Cicero right on the snootle.” 

Before Emil could protest, the Khajiit had started swinging the rope over his head, taking aim and releasing, sending the thick knot rocketing toward the brunet who was fastening a section of sail near the bunt.

“Gah!” A shout announced the impact of the knot, sending Cicero bolting into a full upright position, rubbing his nose and clinging to the mast as he glanced out over the deck to see who had assaulted him. 

“Told ya. Right on the snoot.” Ma’Ikau cackled, elbowing Emil.

Cicero’s eyes focused on the youths below, catching a glimpse of the rope in Ma’Ikau’s hand. “You! Why you little hairball! You’re lucky I don’t shave you in your sleep!” Though the threat was given in a fierce voice, Cicero’s wild smile gave away the insincerity of it.

“Have to be awake to shave this one!” Ma’Ikau raised his tail at the elder man, performing a sort of mooning gesture. “Good luck keeping your eyes open, lazy! Ma’Ikau is much too fast for Cicero, and much more alert, even when sleeping!

“I’ll punt your furry arse into the sea if I get my hands on you, so help me!” Cicero called back, chucking down a bit of frayed rope before returning to his task. “Someone left that up in the rigging. Take it to Celedaen. Make yourself useful, furball.”

Ma’Ikau smirked, picking up the bit of rope and bounding off with Emil in tow. “Do you do that to everyone on this ship?” Emil inquired.

“Nah, only the ones that are easy to tease. Which is most people. But not everyone.” The Khajiit skipped off, handing the frayed length of rope to Celedaen, who was sitting atop a barrel, splicing some ropes together.

“This crap couldn’t hang a flea. It’s chafed down so much I’m surprised it hasn’t disintegrated! Whatever this came from, I’m glad it’s been replaced.”

“Use for worming then,” Ma’Ikau said, continuing on his way, still dragging Emil with him.

“‘Worming’?” Emil tilted his head.

“Worm is when one takes bits of old rope and makes newer rope better. Watch Celedaen.” Emil turned, watching as the elf took a marlinspike and pulled apart the yarns of a few ropes. He began intertwining the yarns, worming in some of the worn yarns from the old rope to fill in the gaps and cuntlines.

“See how it is much thicker and a much nicer shape? That rope will be much stronger now.”

“So that’s Celedaen’s job? To worm the ropes?”

“Worm, parcel, and serve. He splices small ropes together, worms them, serves the ends,” Ma’Ikau gestured to the Altmer as he began wrapping marline around the end of the rope to prevent fraying, “then he parcels the lot, sewing canvas over all so the rope stays strong.”

“I see. What about Glistel and Mirili?”

“Ask them yourself.” Ma’Ikau simply pointed to the two Dunmer, gabbing away as usual as they toiled.

“So, uh, what are you two doing?”

“Swabbing the deck. It keeps the wood from rotting, ensures the boards don’t shrink and let in water, and keeps any loose powder on deck from becoming a fire hazard.” Mirili said, leaning on her mop fluttering her eyelashes at Emil.

“It’s hard work, but we’re paid well enough and someone’s gotta do it. Besides, it gives us plenty of time to talk,” Glistel added, dipping the head of her mop into a bucket of salt water. “Wanna try?” She held the mop out in Emil’s direction, a flirtatious smile on her face. 

“I, uh, n-no thanks.” Emil tittered, trying to think of an excuse that wouldn’t seem rude. Not that he didn’t have every right to refuse - he did - he was a passenger, not a crewmember. “I, um, I p-promised to help Ma’Ikau tonight… s-s-sorry.” It was the truth, too. That was the deal he had made with the Khajiit boy, after all. In exchange for learning about the culture and history of Cyrodiil, he promised to teach Ma’Ikau how to speak more eloquently, or at the very least, master the language enough to be more easily understood.

“You sure? It’s really fun.” Mirili lilted, obviously eager to shirk off her work on Emil, too.

“I’m sure,” the blond said, grinning sheepishly as he retreated to Ma’Ikau’s side.

“You would be surprise at how many men take them up on that offer.” Ma’Ikau smirked, continuing with his little “tour” of the ship.

Ahead of them, Evangeline had one of the spare sails spread across the deck. “And she’s… repairing the sails?”

“That’s right,” Evangeline smiled, “Whenever we pull into port, we swap out the rigging, buy replacements for anything worn or broken, make repairs, and anything usable gets put below as a spare. I repair the spare sails. Of course, we do have a set of brand new rigging below as spares as well, just in case, but we prefer to use things until they’re beyond repair if we can.”

“Makes sense.” Emil nodded. “No reason to throw out old things as long as they work fine.”

“Exactly,” Evangeline chirped, pulling a needle from her headband and threading it. “And it’s my job to make sure these sails are all in good condition in case we need them.” She began sewing together some splits in the cloth, doubling back when she finished in order to reinforce the seam.

“When she’s not baking sweetrolls, anyway.” Ma’Ikau added.

“Alright, that’s everyone we know, so… Who’s that talking to Captain Tucher and what do they do?” Emil asked, pointing to another strange sort of beastfolk. This one resembled a sort of ram or goat, Emil wasn’t quite sure which. He had horns and cloven hooves for feet, but hands with five nimble digits, just like a human’s hands. He was woolly in some places and fleecy in others, with a sort of velvet fuzz on his extremities and a tail that poked out between his coattails.

“That one is Faing, the Visaries. He is the navigator on this ship. Very good with art. Helps Captain with the charts. Whenever we visit new waters, Faing draws new things on the map. His fingers are just the right length, perfectly match the scale on map. Can drink even Tobias under the table. No fun to tease. Very serious.”

“And that girl with the sextant, who’s she?”

“Kiara. Captain’s daughter. First mate. Keeps ship’s crew safe and secure. Very smart. Good swordfighter. Knows all the best sea shanties. Sings well. Fun to tease. But teases even harder than Ma’Ikau. Can being stubborn. Can absolutely kick your butt.”

“My butt specifically, or anyone’s butt in general?” Emil asked incredulously.

“Kiara broke Tobias’ nose once. Maybe she cannot kick everyone’s butt, but she can definitely kick most butts.”

“Yikes. How can I be sure to stay on her good side, then?” Emil simpered.

“Stay out of her way mostly and do as you are told. Offer flowers if looking for a date. She likes lilies. Likes rare fish, too.” 

“No thank you.” Emil chuckled. “I’m not interested in _that_ . I’d need to know her a whole lot better first, anyway.” 

“Only telling you because Tobias tried that. That’s how he got his nose broke.” 

“Then I _definitely_ am not interested.” 

“Don’t be upset at Ma’Ikau,” the Khajiit said teasingly, “This one is just trying to be a good - what is the word for it? - birdman?”  
  
“You mean wingman?”  
  
“Yes, that one.”  
  
“Do you know what it means?” Emil asked. Seriously, this kid knew too many words of that nature.  
  
“Of course. It is when you want the girl, and this one helps you get the girl by saying you are very great and giving you tips.”  
  
Emil was impressed. _This boy’s a bit too smart in all the wrong places._ “That’s right. But what makes you think I want the girl?”  
  
“She is your age. And everybody wants Kiara. Even girls.” 

“Well, not me.” Emil snickered.  
  
“Why not? You only want Nede?”  
  
“Nah, I’m just not really looking for anyone right now.”  
  
“Oh, like Ilta.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Ilta, Ma’Ikau’s lookout partner. She does not want anybody also.”  
  
“Oh. I see. Where is she, then? Aren’t you two supposed to be together?”  
  
“She is up there.” Ma’Ikau pointed to the crow’s nest. “She waits. But you are right, M’Emil. Time for work.” Ma’Ikau charged over to the shrouds, scampering up the ratlines. 

Emil made to follow the other before a gruff voice interrupted. “Oi, you! Blondie! What d’you think yer doin’? Y’ain’t part o’ the crew! Giddoff! Git!”  
  
“Yavin, it is alright! He is Ma’Ikau’s friend,” the young Khajiit called from above.  
  
“Yer _friend_ ? Y’ain’t s’posed t’have passengers in the riggin’. You know that.” 

“He is fine. He is helping this one. Let him alone.”  
  
“An’ if he falls off’a there an’ dies? What then?”  
  
“He will not fall. He is fine.”  
  
“He’s a liability, yeah? Gon make a nice stain on the deck when ‘e comes crashin’ down.”  
  
“I-if it’s going to be a problem, I can st-stay here. I didn’t know--” Emil timidly tried to end the quarrel.  
  
“You are coming, it is fine.” Ma’Ikau insisted.  
  
“What’s all this, then?” Kiara approached, hand on the hilt of her sword. Emil immediately shrank back, having inferred a fierce temper in her from what Ma’Ikau described.  
  
“This’un here’s muckin’ about where ‘e’s not wanted, an’ the little hairball’s goadin’ ‘im on.”  
  
“You, boy,” Kiara glared at Emil. “What is your name?”  
  
“E-Emil,” the blond spoke, softly. 

“You’re that boy passenger from Aselia, yeah? Making trouble for us? Barely out of port and causing disturbances already.”  
  
“N-no, I swear I didn’t mean to, I--”  
  
“It is this one’s fault, Kiara. M’Emil is helping Ma’Ikau.”  
  
“Did I ask for your input?” Kiara, though her posture, tone, and expression were gentle, had a fierce fire in her eyes as she addressed Ma’Ikau. 

“No, miss.”  
  
“Then kindly wait until I do so while I’m addressing someone. As for you, Emil...” the brunette began circling him, “I don’t know what they let you do on the ships of your homeland, but where I’m from we don’t just go galavanting around on a ship we don’t own and aren’t helping to run. Tell me, have you ever sailed before, boy?” Emil was frozen stiff. “Haven’t got all day, boy. Speak. Have you ever sailed before?”  
  
Emil swallowed hard before muttering “N-no ma’am.”  
  
“It’s ‘miss’, if you please.” Kiara responded curtly. “Ma’am might be respectful, but I’m not your mother and I’m not some old priestess in the chapel. But that’s beside the point. The point is that you’ve never sailed and yet you, a guest on this vessel, see no problem with charging around on this boat in the middle of the night while it’s crucial that things run smoothly. So, tell me, are we going to have a problem?”  
  
“N-no, miss.” 

“We’d better not. You might be a guest here, but this is still our business and if you don’t like the rules you can get off at the next port and go back to where you came from.”  
  
“Y-yes, miss.”  
  
“Wait a minute!” Ma’Ikau cut in. “Look, it is not his fault. Ma’Ikau asked him to come. Ma’Ikau did not think it would be any trouble. This one only wanted help with speaking better. Thought maybe, how you say, kill two birds with a rock?”  
  
“T-two birds with one stone.” Emil shyly corrected.  
  
“You see?! This is why Ma’Ikau invites M’Emil to work with him. This one can keep a look out with Ilta, M’Emil can help teach this one words. In exchange, this one will teach him all there is to know about Tamriel. He does not know. It is not his fault. You get mad at Ma’Ikau, not M’Emil.”  
  
Kiara narrowed her eyes. “So, the little Khajiit is sticking his neck out for a brat he barely knows? Interesting. The whims of a child sure are unpredictable. Ma’Ikau,” the Khajiit perked up at the mention of his name, “just because I like you doesn’t mean I’m going to let you get in the way. You really trust this landlubber?”  
  
“Aye! Ma’Ikau trusts M’Emil, miss Kiara, yes, yes!” Ma’Ikau was bursting with enthusiasm. His pupils were dilated, and Emil couldn’t help but think he was doing it purposely.  
  
_Does he know it’s cute to do that, or is that just a happy byproduct of his hyperness?_ __  
__  
“Don’t make the face. You’re going to be a lot less eager when I tell you that if you want this boy following you like a puppy, then __you are taking responsibility for him.”  
  
“Ma’Ikau can do it! M’Emil will not get into trouble, none at all!”  
  
“He better not. Otherwise you and your sister are out of here.”  
  
“Wh-what?” Emil balked.  
  
“You heard me. So think carefully about what you do here, boy. You screw up, and they lose their jobs. That’s a lot of responsibility on your shoulders. Do you want to put that pressure on a child?”  
  
“I… w-well no, of course not, I--”  
  
“M’Emil will be fine! Ma’Ikau promises miss Kiara that there will be no problems!” Ma’Ikau wasn’t backing down. Emil was baffled.  
  
“You d-don’t have to do this. I can teach you at meals, it’s fine, r-really. You don’t have to risk your job for me--” 

“No risk! You will do good, so there is no problem. No second thoughts about it. You come.” He began climbing back up the ratlines before calling back to Kiara. “Thank you for understanding, miss!”  
  
Kiara looked perplexed, as if she was sure that Ma’Ikau would back down, but the look was gone in seconds. “Well, alright then. If he thinks he can handle you, I’m giving you a chance. Don’t blow it. Because I meant what I said. You screw up on his watch and go mucking about where you’re not wanted, we’re going to have a problem, and the chiefest of which will be the insubordinate crew member who goaded you on. You understand why I can’t have that on my ship, don’t you?”  
  
“Y-yes.”  
  
“Yes, what?”  
  
“Y-yes, miss.”  
  
“Good. Now get going before I change my mind. This deal stays between us. And remember, I’m watching you.”  
  
Emil gulped as Kiara walked away, the gruff male crew member from before following, still angry about her leniency. Emil became acutely aware of just how fast his heart was beating. It only leapt and pounded harder when Ma’Ikau called to him. “Come on, Nede. It is okay now. You come up! Must get to work!”

“Y-yeah. C-coming.” Emil fumbled as he reached for the shrouds, feeling very floaty as if he was just an awkward puppeteer sloppily controlling his own body from afar. It took him a moment to regain the coordination he needed to get up on the railing and onto the ratlines. He wasn’t fond of heights, but he just focused on Ma’Ikau encouraging him, and that took care of it.  
  
“You can do it, M’Emil. Much easier than stairs. But if you are going to fall, please do it ahead. This one doesn’t want you to go into the big wetness and die.”  
  
Emil snickered. “Yeah, yeah. I’m doing my best.” Given his track record on the ship, though, he probably shouldn’t have been climbing. Falling out of a hammock or down some stairs was embarrassing and painful, but ultimately harmless. Falling from up in the crow’s nest… now that could do some serious (and almost certainly lethal) damage. Still, Emil kept his eyes on his destination, refusing to look down, and he finally made it.  
  
“M’Emil, say ‘hello’ to Ilta. She is this one’s partner on look out.”  
  
In the crow’s nest was a woman, tall and sinewy, with no small amount of muscle. Her hair was a flaming orange-red, billowing in the breeze from a high ponytail, leaving unobscured, vivid purple irises to glint in the moonlight, scanning the horizon. Her skin was almost glowing, radiant in the night though it was dark as the abyss in hue. Her presence was intimidating to be sure, but somehow Emil wasn’t so much afraid as he was in awe. Glistel and Mirili gave him some visceral sense of unease, like making eye contact with a couple of bears. But Ilta was much more of an eagle. Sure, perfectly capable of ripping you open and eating your guts in a minute or two, but much more graceful, much more majestic.  
  
“H-hello.” Emil managed, shyly taking a seat toward the stern side of the crow’s nest. It was a bit cramped, but it was probably built to just barely hold two people in the first place.  
  
Ilta gave a solemn acknowledging nod, returning her eyes to the horizon.  
  
“Ilta does not talk much. This means plenty of quiet for us to talk.” Ma’Ikau grinned.  
  
“So I see.” Emil smiled back. “So, uh, th-that surly fellow before… who was he exactly?” 

“What is this ‘surly’ word?” 

“Oh, it’s, like, unfriendly. Grumpy.”  
  
“That is Yavin. He is always surly.” Ma’Ikau, said, practicing the pronunciation of the new word. “He is the boatswain. He keeps everyone in order. In charge of equipment and crew. Not always so mean though. Grumpy, yes, but not nasty.” 

  
“If I knew it was going to be a problem, I wouldn’t have agreed.” Emil sighed.  
  
“It really is no problem, Nede. It was Ma’Ikau’s suggestion in the first place. M’Emil does nothing wrong by listening to Ma’Ikau. This one makes his own problems. Do not think on it.”  
  
“Yeah, but now your sister is in trouble and she didn’t even do anything.”  
  
“Even if not, Jo’Kasha would not work on this ship without Ma’Ikau. We stick together. This one’s problems are always her problems and backways.”  
  
“Backways?”  
  
“Jo’Kasha gets this one in trouble too. Once set table on fire trying to light a candle with magic. Had to scrub deck as punishment. Ma’Ikau got no sweet rolls. Not fun. But sister is more important than sweet rolls. Not by much, though.”  
  
Emil couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s nice that you two look out for each other. I have no one like that back home.”  
  
“No friends? Do not be joking, Nede. You are _mikspre_ like kitten, but you are not unlikeable. Must have some friends.”  
  
“What is ‘mikspre?’”  
  
“Oh, right, that is not one of your words. Let Ma’Ikau think. What is word for… _vash kartna ‘mikspre’... ivan, ivan,_ this one thinks of ‘soft’ but that is not word. Someone used it today, augh, what is it?!”  
  
“Put it in a sentence maybe? Or try to define it?” 

“It is like when a child stays with their mother and does not play with other kids…”  
  
“Shy?” Emil suggested. 

“Yes! That is word! Shy! _Ah, bast tem._ That is short and everything, why is it not in this one’s head?!”  
  
“It was on the tip of your tongue, I guess.”  
  
“We say, ‘stuck in the teeth,’ but yes. This one knows the word and cannot find it. Very angry. You should hear this one talk in Ta’agra. Can spit out words adults cannot remember. But this ridiculous language makes this one scream.” 

“Yeah. I can see how that would be frustrating. At least you know two languages, though. I only really know one.”  
  
“Yes, Ma’Ikau has you beat, there,” the Khajiit said with a smirk.  
  
“Got me beat when it comes to a lot of things. Plenty of friends, very confident. Even Kiara admitted to liking you. How’d you ever manage to curry favor with her anyway?”  
  
“Do what?” Ma’Ikau made a belwildered expression.  
  
“How’d you get her to like you?” 

“Oh. Just say that then, _ta rahk,_ what is ‘curry flavor’ for?!”  
  
“Ma’Ikau. If you want to learn the language, you’re going to have to learn strange words. And it’s ‘curry favor’ not ‘flavor’, you dork.” Ilta interjected, catching Emil off guard. 

“She speaks!” Ma’Ikau joked. “But curry is a food, why would it not be ‘flavor?’” 

“It’s not the same word. Actually, I don’t even know how to use the word outside of that phrase.” Emil blushed a bit. “I’m not even sure where the word comes from.”  
  
“If you do not know, why use it?”  
  
“Everyone else does.”  
  
“That is weird.”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah it is.” Emil laughed. “Anyway, back to my question. How did you get Kiara to like you. She seems really abrasive, and yet you know what kind of gifts she likes and she’s willing to let you drag me around.”  
  
“You use too many new words today, Nede. What is abra-abrassive?” 

“Abrasive. It’s, like, harsh, you know? Rough. Doesn’t really care about being nice.”  
  
“ _Ta rahk, kas dem jar vash,_ why do you not just say ‘mean?’”  
  
“Because it’s not quite the same?”  
  
“How is it different?”  
  
“Mean is... trying to upset someone on purpose. Abrasive is just… not trying to upset someone, but probably doing so on accident anyway.” Emil tried to explain in simple words. “Like, an abrasive person can just be someone being honest and not seeing how that hurts people. A mean person _wants_ to hurt people.”  
  
“Ugh, words are hard.” Ma’Ikau sighed. “Anyway. This one learned to… ‘curry favor’ with the ‘abrasive’ Kiara because, well… because Ma’Ikau is a tiny hero.”  
  
“A tiny hero? How so?”  
  
“One night, Ma’Ikau is on look out. Calm night, clear sky. This one sees something in the water and checks it out. Looks like a reef. Ma’Ikau tells the captain but he does not believe it. Will not change course. This one begs and begs. No. Refuses. So Ma’Ikau does a brave and stupid thing. This one pushes captain right out of the way and turns the helm. It clears the port side. Captain sees. Kiara sees. Small reef. Not worst thing to smash into, but not fun either. Kiara trusts this one from then on. More than most, anyway. Still, punished poor Ma’Ikau with no sweet rolls for insu-- for insub-- for doing the wrong thing. But after that, Captain listens to Ma’Ikau more and so does Kiara.”  
  
“I think the word you were thinking of was ‘insubordination.’” 

“Yes, that one. Big word. Too many sounds.”  
  
“It’s pretty good that you remembered part of it, though, and in the right context too.”  
  
“It gets thrown around a lot on this ship. Especially by Yavin.” Ilta spoke again. “As you can tell, he’s a bit of a control freak. I swear he chewed someone out for moving something two inches to the left, once.”  
  
“Being on a boat must be the ultimate stressor for him. Literally everything that’s not nailed down moves…”  
  
“Probably why he’s so grumpy, yeah.” Ilta shrugged. “Not my problem. I just sit up here, keep an eye on the horizon with the hairball, and mind my own damn business. But a word of advice, kid?” Ilta turned to make eye-contact with Emil. “If you learn one thing from Ma’Ikau, it better be this. Walking on eggshells and tiptoeing around things might feel safer, and it might keep you out of trouble, but you can’t approach every problem like that. If you spend your whole life worrying about what might happen if you act, you’re never going to actually do anything. I mean, the other extreme is just as bad. Reckless abandon doesn’t solve much either. But sometimes not giving a damn helps more than caring too much about consequences, y’know? Just some food for thought.”  
  
Emil processed that for a moment. “Th-thank you for the advice. I’ll try to keep in mind.”  
  
“That is the most words Ilta has said in one day, ever.” Ma’Ikau laughed.  
  
“I will throw you out of this crow’s nest, you twerp.” 

“You would not even dare.”

“Don’t test me.”

Emil just sighed, enjoying the breeze on his cheek as the ship sailed onward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you probably noticed that this fic is now listed as complete, with 6/6 chapters and yet it's not done. A little bad news, everyone. I'm not going to be making any more of these chapters public. I'm working on revamping the story so it's original so that I can publish it and if I give out too much, even if it's in fanfic form, that's going to spoil the book for everyone. Also, I need to change a lot and going forward too far as a fanfic will just make rewriting everything harder. So starting today I'm going to be rewriting the old chapters (privately) and getting everything in order so that I can continue with this as an original fic. I'm not going to be a young adult too much longer. Soon, I'm going to be a real adult and I will need to make money (hell, I should technically have at least a part time job right now, but shush.) So I need to take this very seriously going forward. Select friends will still get to see private chapters, so if you're very nice to me, maybe I will let you see, too! Anyway, thanks so much to all my readers! If you like this story please be sure to support it when I publish it! A lot has changed since I started this, but I still love this story so much and it's a big part of my life and I really want this to succeed. So wish me luck as I keep working toward my dream of being an author. You can follow me on Tumblr too, and I do have a Ko-fi page for tips which you can reach through Tumblr. Thanks again for the support! I love you all!


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